Nutrisco et extinguo
by Zoffoli
Summary: "You haven't said what you wanted to say." Well yes, some things take you by surprise, and you're not quite prepared for them. Like when your best friend jumps off a building in front of you. Post-Reichenbach epic, Johnlock. Character study, romance, angst, humour, hurt/comfort, friendship, family, slice of life.
1. Ultima forsan

**Disclaimer: **All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, Arthur Conan Doyle and in their BBC version Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Stephen Thompson. The original characters and plot are mine. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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><p><strong>AN: **This story is a character study that starts a little before Reichenbach and follows Sherlock's and John's lives until their reunion three years later; anticipate spoilers for both seasons. It is indeed a story using songs, but please give it a chance before pressing the back button, I promise it's not just repeating dumbly what the lyrics say and applying them to characters. Hope you enjoy reading, and please R&R! Concrit is much appreciated.

All my thanks to Statistiques and BritChick101 for betaing this chapter, and to Wingatron who is currently helping me edit the entire story.

This story was translated into Russian by MikkaLoitonen. The link to it is on my profile.

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**Nutrisco et extinguo:** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

**Ultima forsan****: **"the last, maybe" in reference to the fleeting instant with the literal temporal connotations of "the hour".

**Warnings:** There are several same-sex couples in this fic, including John and Sherlock. Rating for this chapter is K+

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><p><em>xXx<em>

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><p><strong>NUTRISCO ET EXSTINGUO<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter I: Ultima forsan<strong>

_Mountain & The Sea, by Ingrid Michaelson_

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><p><em>You call me a mountain,<em>

_and I call you the sea_.

_I'll stand tall and certain,_

_and watch you swallow me._

* * *

><p>This wasn't supposed to happen. You had never intended to take a flatmate.<p>

Of course, there was the rent issue, and you definitely did not want to rely on your family's money, or, God forbid, _Mycroft's. _...Well, technically, he was family too.

In any case, you did not need their help. If you set your mind to it, you were obviously smart enough to succeed financially. As a consulting detective, naturally – because really, could you be expected to be anything else? You would never give up the Work for money in any way. In fact, you would never give up the Work. Not for anything.

Although you had told Mike Stamford of all people that no one would ever want to share a flat with you – something that did sound a bit insecure, in hindsight – you hadn't expected the man to come back the very same day with an old pal from uni. You had deduced that it was useless, and consequently, harmless, to talk to Mike because he couldn't possibly have known anyone who would cope with someone like you. Who did?

But then he had to suddenly run into _John Watson_.

Something must have been wrong with you that day – possibly Molly's coffee; you never know what she could have mistaken for the sugar in a mortuary – because you actually let John catch your interest, and thought: _why not?_ The army doctor wouldn't last long anyway. Until then you might even be given some work to do, in which case you wouldn't need the distraction any more.

But John had stayed.

John had laughed in amazement at your deductions about his past; had followed you to a crime scene; had refused a bribe for spying on you (and God knows he needed the money). John had killed a man for you within two days of making your acquaintance. And so you had realized how much John needed this – the thrill, the danger, the action.

At first it had merely been a little challenge for you. You wanted to see if you could get rid of that psychosomatic limp for the doctor, if you could come to understand the man quickly enough to make life spark in those eyes again.

Of course, that had nothing to do with the fact that you were completely mesmerized by the warmth and sheer _light_ that those eyes had unintentionally poured forth on that taxi ride when John had declared: _that was amazing_. The ex-soldier was supposed to be broken and traumatized and dull. Yet there he was, actually surprising you, and you found yourself more and more excited to explore his reactions.

You were used to people being irrational, but this, _this_ was something else: John didn't fit in any category, he didn't follow any pattern. Those moments when he succeeded in throwing you off balance were _new_; they carried the novelty of something you were not only unable to anticipate but also unable to comprehend. You found yourself addicted.

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><p><em>You can move me if you want to<em>

_You can move a mountain, you can move a mountain_

_You can move me if you want to_

_You can move everything, you can move everything_

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><p>The Work always came first. But the point of the Work was to shed light, to expose: the thrill of it was dissection and the illumination of reasonable explanations so that by the end you had unravelled everything... and thus felt the emptiness again. You only longed for another case to fill the void and make the unbearable monotony and listlessness stop, even if just for a while. Until the next case. And the next.<p>

The repetition was never a problem. Desire is the very core of life, after all, and it is only natural that it always fixates on a new object. Satisfaction is dull, anyway. The ache is what keeps us going – well, in any case, what kept _you_ going. When this desire was at work aiming for the truth, your mind was flying, and nothing else mattered.

But then John had come into the picture. John, the unexpected flatmate you indulged as a distraction. John, the dumbfounding soldier who shot a man to save your life when you had barely known him for twenty-four hours. John, who kept surprising you and who _stayed_. You concluded that his addiction to danger and anything that could thrill him out of his stupor was stronger than you had anticipated.

Oh, he certainly got mad and you had fights and argued quite a bit, but he _always came back. _He answered your every text and rushed to your side from wherever he was any time if you asked him to. He made tea and bought milk and made you watch crap telly and ridiculous films. He cared for you as a doctor and attended your every injury sustained during a case; in fact, even through your mundane illnesses, like the flu, he'd enter doctor mode. He became your colleague and flatmate. Even your friend. And that was just preposterous because you did not have _friends_.

Well, that's not exactly true: there was Lestrade, who needed your brain and had developed some sort of fatherly affection towards you after your stint with the seven percent solution. A keeper sent by Mycroft. But one who genuinely cared for you, although he would never admit it out loud. Although you never would.

There was Mrs. Hudson too, who was so grateful for what you had done for her concerning the matter of her husband. She was one of the few people who enjoyed your company, even if she always insisted on _not_ being your housekeeper. Not everyone could be Sherlock Holmes's landlady, but Mrs. Hudson not only put up with him: she was happy to have him. She fussed and chided and cared. She was motherly.

But John... John was different. He was unpredictable. You knew Lestrade would always need you for cases and admire your intellect, knew that Mrs. Hudson would always bear with you because you were the closest thing she had to a child and nothing would ever change that. But John didn't owe you anything, nor did he need you for anything except the excitement you could provide. Vital excitement, perhaps: had he not met Stamford on his stroll in the park, he might not have lasted much longer with the temptation of a loaded gun in his drawer and nobody to miss him.

But now that he is back on track, will he need the thrill for much longer? It could very well be only a necessary re-adaptation to civilian life, some kind of transition back to society through a mixture of _dangerous_ and _mundane_. Both are good to John: he wants both. The only hope you have to keep him by your side is to provide as much excitement as possible, and pray that he never tires of it. You can't give him anything else: you are insufferable at times (fine, most of the time) and wretched at crafting relationships.

That is something you cannot change.

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><p><em>I will grow my own trees<em>

_While you follow the moon,_

_I feel you in my knees_

_Say you'll come in soon._

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><p>It was not just a necessary re-adaptation to civilian life. That much was clear when days turned to weeks and to months. You suspected that John might have some commitment issues that would account for him not having gone and settled down with a wife yet – the nurse that had cared for him in the war, Bill Murray, had after all referred to him as a Casanova on his blog.<p>

Yet this did not completely square with your own analysis of the doctor.

There was a pattern. He would meet a woman and flirt with her. She would give in rather promptly and they would start "dating". After a little while John would start sleeping at the woman's place from time to time. Not always on the sofa. You would unintentionally ruin some dates – yes, unintentionally: you needed John when you needed him, and that was all there was to it. It was hardly your fault John always ran to your side instead of ignoring your texts.

Gradually his relationship with the woman would deteriorate, until she broke it off, usually quite dramatically. You always found that the women John dated were excessively fond of slapping.

In any case the girlfriends represented no danger. John never loved them. He liked them, admittedly. They provided the other half of the balanced life he needed and that you could not entirely provide. This was confirmed by the fact that John often went to his girlfriend's when you had quarreled or when, as he claimed, you had been more insufferable than usual and he "needed some air".

Air. The girlfriends were refreshing, but none of them was vital. John valued his friendship with you more. it was not during cases that this was most evident, but in your boring everyday life.

When you bantered with each other. When he first offered to play Cluedo with you because you were about to riddle the wall with bullets. When he understood you were sorry about something you'd said and took your peace offering – buying milk, beers, accepting to watch a stupid movie – without reproach. In the intimacy and connivence you shared, there was a reciprocal and unvoiced fondness.

John Watson was not only fascinated with you. He cared about and for you.

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><p><em>You can move me if you want to<em>

_You can move a mountain, you can move a mountain,_

_You can move me if you want to_

_You can move everything, you can move everything._

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><p>Surely this was not supposed to happen. John was to be a toy, a distraction; then he turned into an experiment because he was interesting and <em>new<em>, and he was so dumbfounding for the first few days that you fell for it even more.

Then he stayed. The spark of life in him grew brighter and those damn eyes kept shedding that stupid light that couldn't satiate your need for him, and you knew you were doomed. You realized that the prospect of a future without John made something clench inside of you, and you did not want it to happen, even though you knew it would. It would, probably sooner rather than later.

John would keep caring but he would eventually move out. You were loath to admit, even to yourself, that you would actually experience loneliness when you realize he was not around anymore. It might take a while to register, so accustomed have you grown to his presence. But at some point it would sink in and 221B would not be the same.

Consequently, to keep him by your side just a little longer, you must provide him with that necessary thrill without actually endangering him. You must tolerate a certain amount of _mundane_ in his schedule (the clinic, the girlfriends, the crap telly, his silly holidays, and so on) without giving him enough space to be satisfied with only his normality. It is crucial that the advantages of sharing a flat with you always outweigh the disadvantages in John's mind.

After months of living with him you have come to note a few constants. John is a proud man and hates to feel inferior or useless. It is necessary to remind him once in a while of his value and merits. You would not exactly call it stroke his ego, but at least limitate your usual remarks about people's stupidity. A bit.

The pool incident made you realize how important it was that not only Moriarty but John too saw that you weren't just a machine. It was regrettable that the consulting criminal had noticed. But after reading John's post on his blog it was clear that he too enjoyed some displays of emotion on your part.

Refreshing, he'd written. The hurt and disbelief in your eyes when you first set them on John at the pool had been refreshing. Your flatmate was not a sadist, and if he found some pleasure in you looking broken and betrayed, there was only one explanation: he too wanted to know Sherlock Holmes was human.

The worse part of that post, though, was when yourblogger admitted he did not know whether you would sacrifice your life for his. Your intellect being superior, you would always take the course of action that would most likely result in both his and your survivals. You saw no logic in unnecessary heroism and would not throw your life away on the spur of the moment.

Which was not exactly what John had done, of course: he had probably not seen any better option at the time. Yet you found yourself strangely upset reading his post. If Moriarty had realized your weakness, clearly John had not.

So little displays of emotion and small tokens of affection were actually welcome, perhaps even wanted. You did not like it, but it was unacceptable that John would believe he did not mean as much to you as you did to him. Yet it was also imperative that he did not become aware that he might well mean more.

Not the slightest miscalculation will you permit: if you manage it well, you may keep the doctor with you for a while. And perhaps perhaps increase the chances that he will visit you often when he's married and gone.

You wince at the thought, and wonder.

"Are you all right, Sherlock?"

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><p><em>But then one day you'll go away, but I will too<em>

_But until then, oh my darling friend, well I will hold_

_Yes I will hold, yes I will hold_

_Yes I will hold on to you_

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><p>You try not to look startled as his voice snaps you out of your musing.<p>

"Of course I am, John. Just thinking about the case."

He comes over, mug in hand, and sits in the armchair, tossing the Union Jack pillow away. You watch him sip his tea nonchalantly.

"That's not your Superior-mind-busy-with-a-case don't-you-dare-disturb face, though."

You look up and blink at him. He's doing it again. Not the kind of observation Mycroft or you would make, but an intuition, a form of understanding all the more precious as it doesn't arise from some cold-blooded analysis. John doesn't know because he can read faces like you can. He knows because it's _you_.

At your silence, the doctor looks slightly worried.

"Is something bothering you? Maybe I can help."

"I assure you, there is nothing of the sort."

"Now I know you're lying."

"What? Why?"

"Your phrasing. When you tell the truth, you're clear and simple. Also, you're always lying or at least pretending when you start with 'I assure you'."

You cannot stop the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

John answers it openly with a smirk of his own, warmer than the mug he's holding. He doesn't smile at you like anyone you know; not like Mrs. Hudson, not like Lestrade. There is nothing parent-like about him. The fondness pervading his expression is not protective, but teasing. And yet John would protect you with his life.

It did not make any sense, but John Watson had elected to trust you and care for you of all people. You could not have hoped for a better flatmate, one more complementary than John was to you. He gave you warmth and admiration like you never expected anyone to give you. No one had ever trusted you and respected you as much as John did. And if the price to pay was to have a heart, then so be it.

"Interesting. So you've been developing your deductive skills? Maybe I'll really end up rubbing off on you with time."

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><p><em>You can move me if you want to<em>

_You can move a mountain, you can move a mountain_

_You can move me if you want to_

_You can move everything_

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><p>With time. With <em>time<em>. Yes, maybe you can keep him a bit longer, with prudence and equilibrium.

Two qualities that John's presence unfortunately seems to jeopardize.

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><p><em>You can move everything<em>

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><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_tbc_


	2. Tu autem

**A/N:** This chapter was kindly betaed by Sianco, BritChick101, and Wingatron. All my thanks!

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**Nutrisco et extinguo: **"I feed (upon) it and extinguish it"

**Tu** **autem**: "you however..." ; usually used to designate the crux of a problem.

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

.

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><p><strong>Chapter II:Tu autem<strong>

_This is War, by Ingrid Michaelson_

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><p>oOo<p>

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><p><em><em>It's a wonder at all<br>____That I'm alive  
><em>___It's a wonder at all  
><em>___That I'm still standing__

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><p>John checked his phone for the umpteenth time today – a habit he had acquired not long after the Pool incident.<p>

He had managed to make Sherlock promise him he'd text if he was to do anything stupid again, such as meeting with his (_real_) archenemy in some empty public facility at midnight where anything could happen to him.

John knew that there was no way he would be able to prevent Sherlock from doing ridiculously wild things because, well, it was _Sherlock_. But he wanted to at least be a part of it; and _not_ by being kidnapped unawares and strapped with Semtex, but rather by being brought along by Sherlock himself. God, couldn't the infuriating man have told him about his plan? John should have known something was wrong when he'd offered to buy the milk.

As a result, John always looked like a schoolgirl craving texts from her boyfriend whenever he was away from Sherlock – mostly when working at the clinic, as he was now. On his lunch break, to be fair. He was a good doctor after all, and he wouldn't be distracted when with a patient. Unless he actually did receive a text then. Shaking his head, he tried not to dwell on the thought.

That night after they'd come back from the pool, Sherlock had stayed behind the door of John's bedroom until morning. He hadn't said anything, nor had he made his presence known in any way; he had even taken the trouble to climb the steps extremely quietly. But John was a soldier and knew when someone was looming right in front of his room.

He'd almost opened the door to tell his friend he was fine and he should get some rest instead of just standing there in the dark, but he had feared the detective's reaction. He didn't want it to seem like he was rejecting him, not when he had reproached him for his detachment just a few hours before; and especially not when Moriarty had so blatantly implied that he was Sherlock's heart. Or what made him realize he had one, anyway.

But, truth be told, Sherlock was probably what brought the doctor's own heart back to life. He had given him back his courage. And John actually felt like he was much more indebted to the consulting detective than the other way around.

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><p><em><em><em>It's a wonder at all<br>______That I survived the war  
><em>_____Between your heart  
><em>_____And mine___

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><p>He had given him back his life, and had made it so much better. John couldn't remember ever feeling so alive – so happy. Yes the detective was insufferable, bossy, childish, capricious, exciting, charismatic... But God, he was just so <em>magnetic<em>. John knew as a doctor (and now as a friend) that Sherlock was not a sociopath, regardless of the idiot's claims on the matter. Because he truly was an idiot to hide behind that definition, thus shutting himself from the world, and even from his own flatmate at the beginning. Sherlock had kept his distance, and just hadn't opened up. He'd refused to.

The situation had got even worse after the Pool: for some reason, Sherlock seemed to think John wouldn't be inclined to stay with a freak who not only blew up the flat on a regular basis, but who almost got _him_ blown up because he was too excited to meet some criminal mastermind.

To be honest, John didn't want to be blown up by his flatmate – or be blown up at all, thank you very much – but that did not mean he wanted to leave Baker Street. In fact, he still wondered whether he would ever be ready, and more importantly _willing,_ to do so. Sherlock was addictive and John knew their relationship wasn't healthy. Not because they were both addicted to each other, but because Sherlock wanted nothing to do with relationships, and John...

Well, John didn't know. But he cared – a lot, too much maybe. That much was obvious. He was ready to admit that. Sherlock was a force in his life on which he did not want to give up. He felt no guilt towards the women he dated, because to him, they belonged to another realm. They got the flowers and the chocolates and the restaurants and the flirting and the sex, and Sherlock... Well, Sherlock got everything else.

Still John found no reason for his girlfriends to be jealous of Sherlock. Nobody seemed to give a damn about the fact that he wasn't gay, i.e. not aroused by Sherlock walking around naked under a sheet. Wanting to hug him or ruffle his hair didn't count. He'd do the same with a little brother.

John blinked, trying to dispel the disturbing image of the Holmes brothers hugging, then of he and Harry hugging.

All right, so maybe not like a little brother, considering the relationships they had with their siblings. Still there was nothing sexual in the surges of fondness John sometimes got. And most of all, he did not act on them.

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><p><em>I won't surrender, <em>_I will fight better_  
><em>You lock me out and knock me down<em>  
><em>And I will find my way around<em>  
><em>I won't surrender<em>  
><em>This is war<em>

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><p>John wasn't stupid. He knew for a fact that Sherlock was the most important person in his life.<p>

But he also knew they were not ready for anything more than friendship, and even achieving that with the lunatic git was a feat, really, with all the 'I'm a high functioning sociopath' crap.

John was getting tired of it. It made him want to break the his flatmate's defences all the more, make him understand that being close to people wasn't a weakness, but protected you and made you feel warm and _not alone_. Nothing wrong with that.

And so the doctor did everything he could to make Sherlock open up to him a bit more every day. He was used to the detective's theatrics by now, to the acts he put on, and even to the raw emotions that would escape him fleetingly – and, John believed, unwittingly.

Because Sherlock did have emotions beside being excited by a murder or dying of boredom. Not only wonder, interest, recognition, but also more down-to-earth emotions that had nothing to do with his genius. One of John's favourite was _sheepish. _Sherlock hardly ever looked sheepish, mind you, but he could appear sheepish in his messages on John's blog, sometimes (rarely) in his texts. Mostly, by the mere presence of things in the fridge John hadn't put there.

Another more obvious one, but which John enjoyed nonetheless, was _miffed_. Whoever said Sherlock Holmes did not pout hadn't paid enough attention, because he did. More often than not he was annoying when he was annoyed, which limited how endearing it could be.

John had noticed a constant: when Sherlock felt strong emotions, he looked like a child. Not necessarily childish, although that was often the case, but genuinely childlike. Showing emotions made him appear younger. It was disarming.

It was charming.

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><p><em>It's a wonder at all that I can see<em>  
><em>It's a wonder at all the sky's not falling down<em>  
><em>It's a wonder at all that I decide to breathe<em>  
><em>Anymore<em>

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><p>Sometimes he got mad at him and was so pissed he just couldn't bear his presence in the room anymore. The unsaid words, the complex and hidden feelings just threatened to suffocate him. He needed air in those moments when Sherlock was being so stubborn.<p>

And still John couldn't stay away very long, couldn't remain upset very long. He liked to think it was because he was precious to Sherlock and knew someone had to be there to have his back, or to stop the downward spiralling of boredom. The consulting detective was the kind of man who could be dangerous to himself if left alone too long, and although John would never admit it out loud, he now understood why Mycroft was always worried.

Not that he personally was always worried. Sherlock was reckless and would put his life on the line every chance he got because that was how he had fun, and John couldn't really blame him. All he wanted was to accompany him. If only Sherlock was willing to let him in.

It was unfair how he could read John's mind and know everything about him when John was still so easily manipulated by him. The ex-soldier could hide nothing, Sherlock could hide everything if he wanted. He could trick John, and had showed no qualms about doing so in the past.

Such vulnerability would have scared anyone away, but John trusted Sherlock with his own life. After a while, he got used to the idea that he couldn't hide anything, and found it strangely liberating. He'd always cared about what others thought of him, but being with Sherlock made him realize how little he truly had to hide. He never felt ashamed in front of Sherlock, perhaps because the consulting detective had never truly tried to humiliate him.

Or rather, because the image of himself Sherlock's eyes reflected was both accurate and oddly compelling. It was true. And truth was always something John knew how to face.

So the fact that his flatmate could read him like an open book wasn't so much of a problem, even if it was frustrating that John couldn't do as much with Sherlock. No, the real issue was that John was ready to be as open as possible, and clearly, Sherlock wasn't.

He would rather act like an insufferable dick than admit he was scared of John leaving. Crazy bastard – really, how was the doctor supposed to make him drop all this reverse psychology nonsense?

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><p><em>This is war<br>I will run until I can't run anymore  
>Someone's got to lose, it's not gonna be this girl<br>___This time, I won't surrender, I will fight better  
><em>_

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><p>But John had known worse.<p>

To be sure, he had no idea where this would lead him, nor did he know whether Sherlock would throw him out if he thought he couldn't cope with his own feelings any longer; if he decided John really was more of a hindrance than he was worth, and could be used against him as his utmost weakness.

That would be completely moronic – what came next then? Moving out of Baker Street, away from Mrs. Hudson – whom he cared for as well? Refusing to meet Lestrade?

John sighed. Sherlock certainly wasn't above it. Idiot.

Nevertheless, the doctor secretly hoped it would never come to that. He wanted to make Sherlock understand that he could trust him and rely on him, because he did not intend to leave any time soon. Of course he dated women – a man _has_ needs after all – but not one of them could compete with the detective. John was attracted to women but whilst he enjoyed dating and shagging them, he couldn't picture himself falling in love with any of the ones he'd met, nor, God forbid, moving in with her. Unless she agreed to move into Baker Street with Sherlock there as well.

John blinked upon realizing what he had just thought. He massaged his temples, trying hard not to start laughing like a madman in his office.

_God, I really am doomed..._

His phone suddenly vibrated on his desk. He glanced at it.

_**We're out of milk. Buy some on your way back. (And you should really stop checking your inbox every five minutes or so, John, it doesn't make you very attractive to bachelorettes) SH**_

John stared at his screen for a second before he broke into a grin. The man would be the death of him.

**_You're right. I'm sure I broke the heart of every senior patient I saw this morning. Unless you're talking about the incredibly sexy and _lesbian _receptionist. I'll make sure to ignore your texts when I get the milk though, might have a chance with the cash till there – machines _can_ be pretty sensitive about those things_'_. JW_**

* * *

><p><em>This is war<em>

* * *

><p>Yes, Sherlock would be the death of him; he was causing him to fall fast and hard. But John intended very much to take him along, whatever he was falling into. He grinned.<p>

This was even better than war.

_._

_._

_._

_tbc_


	3. Uno flatu

**A.N.: **This chapter has been kindly betaed by Sianco, BritChick101, and Wingatron. As always, reviewers are loved ;)

...

**Nutrisco et extinguo: **"I feed (upon) it and extinguish it"

**Uno flatu**: "in one breath"

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter III: Uno flatu<strong>

_Can't help falling in love with you, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Wise men say only fools rush in.<br>But I can't help falling in love with you.  
><em>Shall I stay?<em>  
><em>

* * *

><p>John hung up and quietly put the phone back on the table. He saw Sherlock entering the room as if in slow motion. Everything was a blur.<p>

Shot.

His first lieutenant back in Afghanistan – his first _friend _there – had been shot. Of course being shot wasn't uncommon in war – something John knew about intimately, although he had survived. Charlie hadn't been so lucky.

John pinched his nose and closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing.

"John?"

He hadn't heard from him in months – hell, he'd barely heard from him after he was sent back. They knew they weren't part of the same world anymore. But to think he would be killed less than two years after they had gone their separate ways... Nothing could have prepared him for that.

"John."

The doctor took a deep breath and let his hand fall back alongside his body.

"Sorry Sherlock, I don't think I'm up for Chinese tonight. I'll just head straight to bed, if you don't mind."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Is something wrong?"

John shook his head voicelessly and left the room without any further explanation.

Sherlock just stood there, staring at the phone and listening to John slowly climbing up the stairs and closing his door quietly. Obviously he had received some very upsetting news. His sister? No, he wouldn't have gone to his room then, but to the hospital or the mortuary. From the data he had, Sherlock knew John was Harry's only close relative since their parents' death. So, not the sister. Who else mattered for John? He had friends. Mike Stamford, Bill Murray... Even Clara, Harry's ex-wife. But again, if something had happened to any of them, he would be out of the flat by now, not in his room. John had looked stricken, but powerless. This pointed quite clearly to death. But whose? Someone far, someone for whom John could do nothing. The most plausible explanation was that this concerned a person he had met in Afghanistan. And if John had not left the flat to do something about it, it meant there was nothing to be done. The grim resignation on his friend's face as he had left the room only confirmed the hypothesis of death.

So someone had died, someone close; well, at least the closest one could find on the front. Probably a subordinate, a person with whom John would have had to spend time with in the first place. The detective went to John's laptop and looked up the most recent casualties. He was looking for a lieutenant at least, probably a first lieutenant, who would have been in John's regiment. Suddenly, he stopped scrolling down the page.

"Here he is. Redford, Charles Benjamin, Rank... 1st Lieutenant, Age 26."

26... Well, that must be even more upsetting, right? Sherlock wasn't good with this type of things, but even he could tell when someone was 'too young to die'. This was a war, though, and there were bound to be people who got shot and some who died from their wounds. A shiver ran down his spine. What if the bullet had hit John a few centimetres lower, a little bit more on the right?

He stood up abruptly and started pacing the room.

Of course John would be upset. And it had nothing to do with the dead man's _age. _John had been attached to him. He had _cared_. Just like Sherlock cared about John now. The detective stopped in his tracks. On second thought, hopefully not _just like _Sherlock did. Or could it be that...

Now he was getting irritated.

* * *

><p><em>Would it be a sin<br>If I can't help falling in love with you?  
><em>

* * *

><p>John lay in bed staring at the ceiling, empty-gazed, haunted by memories of the war.<p>

The last time he saw Charlie.

When he first met him, still looking like a child who had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

His silly bright smile when they had survived a vehicle roll-over.

And then he pictured him injured and dying on an infirmary bed, body bloodied and gaze already glazed... and he must have been half asleep, because now it was _Sherlock _dying on that bed, his black curls sticking to his forehead with dried blood, his sharp blue eyes not so sharp anymore, and John could no longer take it.

He rolled over on his side and tried to banish the dreadful images from his mind. This wasn't right. He was supposed to be grieving for his dead friend. So why was he seeing the detective's face now of all times? And why did he just wish he could bury himself in his flatmate's chest and cry away the pain?

This was ridiculous.

* * *

><p><em><em><em>Like a river flows surely to the sea,<br>Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be.___

* * *

><p>Sherlock had stopped pacing and was now sprawled on the sofa, craving a cigarette but not daring to light up –<em>John<em> was supposed to be distressed, not him! – in case the doctor found out (and he knew he would). He craved his violin and the relief playing madly would bring him – but he was too afraid to upset his grieving flatmate. He even craved said flatmate_._ This was getting out of hand. Caring about John's life was one thing, but caring about _John's friends_' lives? Someone he hadn't even met? Well, truth be told, he didn't really care about Charles Benjamin Redford's death. The name meant nothing to him. Certainly he wasn't one to rejoice in somebody's death (unless it had been a murder, of course) but he didn't feel upset about it. Yet right now, he _was _upset. Most likely because he didn't like the look John had sent him before going to bed. At all. There was no light in that look. It had been the look of a haunted man, and one who even felt guilty, for some indecipherable reason. Did he really think he could have prevented it if he had been there? It was stupid. And John wasn't that stupid. He was, however, one who would feel guilty for his former lieutenant's death, regardless of how irrational such a consideration truly was.

The silence soon became unbearable. Sherlock was even tempted to turn on the television. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought. When had he even started to regard crap telly as a sufficient distraction? … No, he didn't want to think about that. Sighing in exasperation, he looked around the room to try and occupy his restless mind. The skull. _'He's a friend of mine. Well, when I say a friend...'_ No, no, that wasn't right. His gaze fell on the shelves of books. _'What, you haven't read any Agatha Christie? I thought you'd be one to like detective stories!' 'They really shouldn't be called that.'_ He tore his gaze from the shelves and directed it towards the kitchen. _'Sherlock. There's a head in the fridge. A bloody head!' 'Well, where else was I supposed to put it?'_

Unable to take it anymore, he closed his eyes. This was absurd. He had encountered much more upsetting matters in his life. But then the flat hadn't had John's presence written all over it. Each and every item in the room seemed to be associated with the army doctor, and Sherlock couldn't fathom how he had come to occupy such a place in his life, crowding his space to the point where Sherlock couldn't forget the man for one damned second. Not that the detective really could forget anything, mind you, but he'd always had full reign over his mind palace, putting things away and conjuring them up only when needed. He didn't need to think of John now. There was nothing he could do for him.

Or was there? A flatmate was supposed to give some privacy, but would a friend be expected to _comfort _a grieving man? This was absurd. What was there to be said? Charles Benjamin Redford was dead, end of the story. There was no bringing him back; John would never see him again. It was bound to be painful for him. So what could Sherlock do about it? If John had wanted to be distracted, he would have stayed and not gone to his room. Clearly he wanted to be left alone, in peace. _Rest in peace_. Another shiver. Sherlock swallowed and decided to concentrate on the background noises; Mrs. Hudson's radio downstairs, some drunks walking down the street, a car slowing down, stopping, and then moving away – probably a cab. And from John's room, not a sound. Although there would be some, later in the night. Of that Sherlock was sure. The doctor would be plagued with nightmares tonight.

* * *

><p><em>So take my hand<br>And take my whole life too  
>'Cause I can't help falling in love with you.<em>

* * *

><p>The heat around them was unbearable, but John was cold. He was shivering his way through the chaos, trying to tend to the wounded wherever there was still a chance to save them. It was a wonder how his hands didn't shake, considering he felt like he was freezing to death.<p>

He stumbled on a body and his blood turned even colder.

"Charlie!"

Kneeling down, he checked the pulse of his wounded friend. His medical eyes took in every detail – where the bullet had entered the body, how much blood had been lost, whether there were any other major injuries...

"John..."

"Yes, Charlie, it's me. Keep looking at me, don't fall asleep. No, Charlie, look at me! Don't take your eyes off me! Will you do that for me?"

His friend smiled, but John saw the light leave his eyes for good as his head fell back upon the sand.

"No, no... Charlie! Charlie, say something!"

But he was a doctor, and he knew when it was too late. When a body was but a mere body, and there was no way he could try and revive him here in this apocalyptic and barren place with no medical facilities.

He shut his eyes tight and his fist hit the sand forcefully. It felt all the more horrible as no sound came from it. Nothing was broken. He could hit the dirt over and over again and his fist wouldn't even hurt or be scratched in the least and the ground wouldn't break and swallow him all and let him ease the frustration.

"John! John!"

He lifted his head, looked in the direction of the voice – and found himself still kneeling. He was now overlooking the edge of a canyon; he couldn't remember seeing any of those in Afghanistan before. On the other side of the chasm he caught a glimpse of a silhouette standing and suddenly felt the urge to run and fly to the man.

"Sherlock!"

But they were too far apart and he couldn't make out what the other man was saying through the storm – and when did _that _come into the picture? John had no time to dwell on it. He now saw what his friend had been pointing at: armed men in the distance between the flames and the corpses, walking towards him.

He looked back at the detective and saw him moving his long arms around, making signs that he should come over to his side of the canyon; come to _him._ The doctor could only hear him call out his name.

"John! John!"

He stood and faced his flatmate, looking down into the pit. There was no way a man could jump over such a distance, even with impetus. He gazed back at the silhouette and could discern through the clouds of sand the pallor on his partner's face.

The soldier took a deep breath and prepared himself to die. But then everything went wrong – more so, anyway – as the earth on the other side of the chasm started to collapse and John barely had the time to scream: "SHERLOCK!" before he saw his friend falling into the abyss.

"SHERLOCK! _SHERLOCK!"_

John tried to throw himself into the void after him, not thinking straight, believing he might catch him or at least touch him _be_ with him and not here with strangers holding him back pulling him away for the darkness that had swallowed the detective and why should they care when they were here to kill him in the first place anyway?

But all John could do was struggle and cry out to the abyss and refuse to be shaken out of it because no, no, _no_ this couldn't be happening he had to jump after Sherlock and catch him in time and...

"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherl..."

"John. Wake up. John. I'm right here!"

John's eyes snapped open and stared back at his – very alive – flatmate. It took him a few seconds to adjust to reality. He sat breathless, his whole body tense, until he let out a sigh and slumped back into his mattress with a thump.

* * *

><p><em>Like a river flows so surely to the sea<br>Oh my darling so it goes  
>Some things are meant to be<em>

* * *

><p>"Nightmare," he murmured.<p>

"I had gathered as much."

"Sorry, did I wake you up? What are you doing here?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the bed, but John was too shaken to notice.

"I heard you struggle in your sleep and knew you were having a nightmare. I was going to leave it because it shouldn't concern me and I shouldn't just walk into your room, but then you started shouting my name, on and on, and I just couldn't–"

"I'm sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?"

"Nothing, I... I know you're not good at this kind of things... not your area..."

Sherlock stiffened.

"Maybe I should just leave."

"No!"

The word escaped John before he even realized what he was saying and the undertone of panic it held. He cursed the state of mind the nightmare had left him in and added in a more composed voice:

"Don't... I mean, you don't have to..."

Sherlock stared and suddenly wondered just _who _wasn't good with this kind of things. He crawled onto the bed and lay on his right side, facing John's form, sweaty and still shaky from the dream. The room was quiet, as if both men were holding their breath. That is, until Sherlock broke the silence.

"What did you see?"

John swallowed.

"I'm not sure I..."

"Yes you should."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock poked his arm. _Poked _his arm. _Sherlock_. John just stared dumbfounded at the shadow lying next to him.

"Body contact, too, once you have calmed down. Although I shouldn't have tried to wake you up, it seems, but really all you could have done was choke me to death and, well, I've already had some experience with that from a Chinese friend so..."

"Wait, wait. Did you _google _this? You knew I was going to have a nightmare?"

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was... touched.

"You didn't expect me to have extended knowledge on such a subject, did you? And of course I knew you would be having nightmares – come on, John, even you must have known."

John swallowed. He would have laughed at this, but he felt sick in his stomach just remembering the heat and the sand and the blood and he was so damned cold and so was Charlie lying on the ground and Sherlock so pale and obviously distressed and _out of reach _and just when he thought _he _was going to die, the ground devouring the detective and...

He felt Sherlock take his hand and squeeze it none too gently.

"John. I said _talk _about it, not relive it."

John squeezed back and took a deep breath.

"I... I was back in Afghanistan, yet it was different. I was tending to the injured when I walked upon Charlie, and I couldn't save him, I had to see his life leaving him... and then you were there too, calling... calling me from the other side of a canyon."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"A canyon?"

"Mm. You were trying to tell me to come over to you because armed men were coming in my direction... but then the earth collapsed and I saw you fall into the chasm and those men who were supposed to kill me were actually holding me back, stopping me from going after you..."

* * *

><p><em>So won't you please take my hand<br>And take my whole life too  
>'Cause I can't help falling in love, in love with you<em>

* * *

><p>"Did the earth collapse only on my side?"<p>

John nodded, too tired to wonder at the incongruity of the question. Well, this was Sherlock after all. What was he expecting, a hug?

"I see... Well, let me just tell you something."

"Mm?"

"If you ever see someone falling in a chasm, don't jump after them. It is rather unlikely you'll have a chance to _catch _them."

At this, John blinked... and laughed. It was a broken laugh and soon it turned into a sob, but this was just so much like _Sherlock _he couldn't help but feel relieved and pained at the same time. He wasn't burying himself in his flatmate's chest, but still there was Sherlock lying next to him and listening to him talking about his nightmares of all things and John wondered how Sherlock could manage to do something so _boring_.

"Because it's you," came the whispered reply.

John started. Had he heard this right?

"Yes, John, you have," Sherlock repeated in a slightly more irritated tone.

The doctor really should have got used to this by now – the detective reading his thoughts and answering them. But he hadn't, and it still amazed him each and every time.

Maybe this was the right time for this. John was exhausted but he felt like something had to be said.

"I'm not leaving, you know."

He thought he heard Sherlock catch his breath. Had this been too direct? But he might not get a chance to have the detective so close to him and willing to listen and _God _John wished he would never let go of that hand, and in that moment he wasn't even disturbed by the thought. He could feel the warmth spreading to his body from his friend's palm.

Sherlock wasn't squeezing anymore, but he didn't let go either. Silence had settled in, and it didn't seem like the detective was going to say anything, so John just let himself doze off, hoping he would get some sleep at last. He knew, however, that he didn't dream the murmured words he heard before falling into a deeper slumber.

_"I'm not leaving either."_

* * *

><p><em>'Cause I can't help falling in love,<br>Falling in love,  
>I keep falling in love<br>With you_

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_tbc_


	4. Utraque unum

**Nutrisco et extinguo:**_ "I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

**Utraque unum: **_"both into one"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

**NB:** this chapter has been kindly betaed by Sianco, BritChick101, and Wingatron. All my thanks :)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter IV: Utraque unum<strong>

_Around you, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p>Molly always turned the radio on when she was in the shower, because it filled the silence of her lonely flat. Well, not that lonely since she got Toby – but like most <em>cats<em>, he wasn't very talkative. Plus, she enjoyed listening to music while hot steaming water was poured on her body, and it helped her relax after a hard day's work.

Her little blog online, which she called her diary, used to have the same effect on her. Until Jim came along and she was so disgusted with him and with herself that she just dropped it altogether.

Jim. This was crazy. She was 32 already, but she was fawning over a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath who flirted with her only to get what he wanted, and her last boyfriend had been some psychotic criminal mastermind – a friend of Sherlock's, of course. Well, when she said friend...

It had all ended awfully – she had read about it on John's blog - it really was dreadful business. Once again, she had been fooled. But so had Sherlock, for that matter. It must have been a blow – not only to his pride, but because John had been in danger because of it. Because of _him._ And truth be told, Molly was so glad the doctor kept claiming he was straight, because he obviously was the closest to what Sherlock had come to a relationship.

_oOo_

**I call you my friend  
>And that's all that I do<br>Why do I have to pretend  
>To find ways to be around you?<strong>

_oOo_

She giggled under the water. She just loved it when the song playing matched her thoughts perfectly! It made her feel less... alone. Oh God, she really was becoming a mad spinster...

But really, _that_ song was just so fitting to the funny pair she had come to love.

_oOo_

**You've been there all along  
>Holding my hand like you do.<br>Why do I feel that it's wrong  
>To love to be around you?<strong>

_oOo_

Yes, she decided, she was over Sherlock. OK, so maybe she wasn't, but it was pathetic, because since the whole incident with Irene Adler she had known for sure she didn't stand a chance. Not because of Miss Adler, in fact. But for one thing, Sherlock had been _nice_ to her. He had actually apologized after having so stupidly mocked her and her silly gift without knowing it was addressed to him. That's when Molly realized how much he had changed since he had met John – and she wasn't saying John had a good influence on him or anything like that, no. Rather, Sherlock was willing to make efforts to adapt, to _change _himself to please the doctor. Not all the time, of course – he still acted like a prick and ruined all his dates and considered he should be his number one priority. But wasn't that all too telling?

_oOo_

**And I think I'm losing my mind  
>Maybe I've been hopelessly blind to your beauty<br>And you have a sweet sinful smile  
>I'm in trouble<br>'Cause you turn me upside down and around and around**

_oOo_

She wouldn't say his smile was sinful, really. Was it? It certainly was a knowing smile though, one that suggested some secret understanding; one she had seen the pair share numerous times. She had never thought _Sherlock_ capable of being so intimate with anyone. The detective wasn't especially _nice_ to John, because that just wasn't what he did. But he blatantly wanted to have the ex-soldier by his side at all times, which amazed Molly, as she always believed Sherlock to be the "as-soon-as-I-get-what-I-want-I'm-off" type. Maybe he just couldn't get enough of John. Indeed, while still being his usual arrogant self, she had noticed the detective was extremely careful not to push the doctor over the edge – if this hadn't been Sherlock, she could have sworn the man was insecure.

_oOo_

**Do you feel what I feel? Well?  
>Do you feel this way too?<br>That every wound seems to heal when I am around you**

_oOo_

She couldn't help but smirk while shampooing her hair. That would be a first for the consulting detective now, wouldn't it? Not that she would want him to experience some heart break – she wasn't that petty, and no matter what she told herself, she still loved the eccentric man dearly. But she had realized that just like John couldn't truly have a relationship with anyone else as long as he was with Sherlock, similarly there was no way Sherlock would bother with someone else between them. Moreover, he seemed genuinely content with the doctor alone, and unlike John he didn't care if people thought he was gay or bi or only fancied aliens.

_oOo_

**And I must be losing my mind  
>Maybe I have been hopelessly blind to your beauty.<br>****And you have a sweet sinful smile  
>I'm in trouble<br>You turn me upside down and around and around and around**

_oOo_

Now hair conditioner. Blind, that's definitely what they were. Or just in denial. But she couldn't fathom _Sherlock _being in denial – however, he had surprised her many times since John. Yes, 'John' had been a real event in his life, that she did not doubt - possibly the only true event worth mentioning at all. So maybe the detective was well aware, but didn't want to risk John leaving him if he tried anything. … She laughed out loud. She couldn't really picture Sherlock 'trying' anything either, truth be told. The man was just so... awkward. And was in fact a complete moron when it came to sentiments – he hadn't even guessed her present was for him until his eyes had seen the name tag, for Christ's sake!

_oOo_

**And I must be losing my mind  
>Maybe I have been hopelessly blind to your beauty.<strong>

_oOo_

No, really, if anything was ever to happen, John would have to initiate it. But the doctor was adamant about his sexuality. Molly idly wondered why. It was widely accepted nowadays anyway. John was just so damn lucky to have the detective want him, and he was bloody stupid for denying himself if he wanted him back.

_Wow, that was a lot of cursing words for one sentence, Molly_, she told herself.

OK, so maybe she wasn't that over Sherlock. But she had still given up. Hence her frustration with how the two men handled – or rather _didn't_ handle – their relationship. Well, maybe all would come in good time.

_oOo_

**And you have a sweet sinful smile  
>I'm in trouble<br>You turn me upside down and around and around and around**

_oOo_

But there were still so many ways things could go wrong! Sherlock could suddenly feel vulnerable and exposed and throw John out – oh, she knew he wasn't above that 'I-love-him-so-I-can't-see-him-anymore' crap (even if the Sherlockian version would probably be something like 'Your-mere-presence-hinders-the-Work-so-get-out'). John could do something ridiculous too if he didn't get over his sexuality issues before he entered his mid-life crisis and ran away to marry some woman and have two kids and a dog in a cottage. But all in all, Molly trusted the pair to figure something out on their own. She wasn't close enough to them to give her thoughts on the subject anyway – she didn't matter. If worst came to worst, though, she would certainly try her best to patch things up. Who knew what Sherlock would do to cope if they ever had a row and John left for good – he hadn't touched cocaine once since the doctor had entered his life, of that she was certain, and he was even trying to stop smoking. Admittedly he had decided that before he even met John – Lestrade had made sure of it – but Molly knew the detective would've eventually got bored, and then he wouldn't have had a reason to not give into temptation. With John by his side, he had a good enough reason. She smiled. Maybe he'd met his match at last.

_oOo_

**And I must be losing my mind maybe you have a sweet sinful smile  
><strong>**I'm in trouble  
>'Cause you turn me upside down and around and around<strong>

_oOo_

Molly wouldn't say John was making Sherlock lose his mind – quite the contrary, in fact. Sherlock was great at deduction and induction, using reason to analyse and organize data, but John could teach him how to use reason to orient himself. She couldn't believe her ears when she had first heard the detective in the morgue turn to John and ask in a small voice: _Not good?_ Then she had realized; Sherlock always turned to John when asking this now. He only ever asked John. She wondered if the doctor understood it correctly. It seemed obvious to her that he wasn't so much asking if this was good according to society and people in general, but that it was according to _John. _It was then she started to observe the detective more closely - not in a lecherous manner, thank you very much. But she wanted to know if this really was what she thought it was: Sherlock cataloguing each and every one of John's reactions; his glances, words, facial expressions and gestures, all recorded and studied so as to try and not mess things up between them and not overstep the boundary (something in John's principles, perhaps) that would separate him from the doctor permanently.

_oOo_

**Turn me upside down and around and around  
>Turn me upside down and around and around<strong>

_oOo_

As she was rinsing her hair, she looked back on the day and thought that something had definitely been off. She couldn't quite put her finger on it – and so she had sounded like a fool when she had tried talking to Sherlock about it, tried to convey her support, and that he could rely on her, because she would always be there. It may have seemed quite pathetic, especially when she had made it clear she _knew_ it would always be John and not her, but she didn't care. She had come to appreciate both men, and she had known Sherlock long enough to notice when something was troubling him. She just didn't know what could be wrong, and she couldn't really envision the detective coming to her for tips on how to tell your flatmate you were in love with him and that you wished he would stay by your side forever. She blushed. That just sounded so much like marriage! Oh my God. What was she thinking, really, musing of the pair's wedding in the shower when they weren't even dating? She was glad nobody could read her mind, because surely, as John would put it, people would talk.

And really, she must be a freak to wish that the man she fancies would get hooked up with his male flatmate as fast as possible. But then again, wasn't that what Meena had said? That what a girl needed when single and over thirty was either a cat or a gay best friend? Well, Molly already had Toby, but she wouldn't say no to the other option, either.

OK, now she was freaking even herself out. Chuckling, she turned the water off and got out of the shower, into her pink dressing gown, just in time for the end of the song – _so sweet_, she thought dreamily.

_oOo_

**My feet don't touch the ground when I'm around you  
>When I'm around you, you, you, you, you... <strong>

_oOo_

She had no idea just how literal that statement was soon to become.

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	5. Ultima ratio

**A.N.: **The dialogues in this chapter are mostly from the third episode of the second season, with quotes from other episodes and previous chapters. Consequently most of the dialogues are not mine.

This chapter was kindly betaed by Sianco, BritChick101, and Wingatron.

**Nutrisco et extinguo: **"I feed upon it and extinguish it"

**Ultima ratio:** "last resort"

**Warnings: **Rating for this chapter is T.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter V: Ultima ratio<strong>

_Do it now, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Sitting in the back of the bus<br>Talking about nothing, oh, we're talking about us  
>Watching as the world goes hammering on, hammering on<em>

* * *

><p>"I don't want people thinking you're a fraud," John had said. And you had stared.<p>

You realized it actually upset you. That John may doubt you, too. So you started deducing him out loud just to prove you could _still_ read his thoughts and you knew you sounded almost as mad as that time when you'd just seen a gigantic hound and John had said you were tired and on edge. Now you know that's what had troubled you the most. Because if _John_ of all people didn't believe you, didn't believe in you, who would?

Then you remembered that was the whole point. Him, not believing you.

Acting upset and insecure was fine for now. The problem was that you weren't acting. You were angry with him and with Jim and with yourself and wished you could spell it out for John. But you couldn't. What you were doing was for the best. In the end, it would be better if John truly thought you had played him. It would be safer. For him, for you; for everyone. And yet, illogical as it may be, you cannot stop yourself hoping deep down that he won't fall for it. For any of it. For the first time you become aware of the fact that John might know you because you want him to know you. This is dangerous. And not in a good way, not in a fun way – there is something intrinsically not fun about John getting caught in the game again, not as a player, but as a stake. You cannot allow it. You won't. If John starts doubting not what you have been to him until now but all the careful appearances you have been weaving the past few days, ever since Moriarty broke into the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and Pentonville Prison, then he might also doubt the most important part of this great trick: your death.

And yet you could not shake off the sense of betrayal. It was ironic that you would feel betrayed by John's reaction when you were the one betraying his trust. Yes, you were lying to him. Yes, you were manipulating him, using the knowledge you had about him to do so, using months of life as flatmates, colleagues, friends...

Trust. Even if that wasn't your area, you could easily guess that all those nice little social labels – flatmates, colleagues, friends – implied _trust_ between the two. You shouldn't have let it show. But it had been rising in your chest, bubbling with something bitter and cold – disappointment, fear – and your voice had become louder, your tone snappier, your speech more precipitated than usual. Anger. Moriarty must have known. He never did anything by accident. This too was textbook. You had learned. You had learned, and yet you had no choice but to play along, lie to your friend to save his life, betray his trust, wound him, and shouldn't have let it show.

But John hadn't snapped back, hadn't left you to get some air. He had chuckled and smiled.

"No one could act like such an annoying dick all the time." And you could only stare.

Amazed that you had been wrong. That he hadn't been doubting you, but was genuinely preoccupied with public opinion – he writes about you on his blog (only about you, adds a little voice somewhere in your head, one you definitely don't want to hear right now, or, on second thoughts, ever, and that you throw back into a drawer you then set on fire) – so it's only natural he'd want to be taken seriously and believed as well. Because then he'd either be considered an idiot or a fraud too.

Later he'll say: "Can I help?" and you will tell him: "No, on my own", and you will walk away. Now you simply let his words wash over you.

"I know you're for real." And you had smiled.

He does, indeed. And that's the problem – the final problem, for you anyway. You'll have to play it perfectly until the very end – especially the end.

But for now, you just smile.

* * *

><p><em>You say that you got nothing left<br>There's nothing left in you to find  
>You're gonna ride it out, gonna wait it out, living to die<br>You're living to die_

* * *

><p>Later you'll say "I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this" and you will simultaneously loathe and be grateful for the distance between you. But that scene hasn't played out yet and for now you are just surprised to feel his hand in yours.<p>

"Take my hand!"

"Now people will definitely talk."

Yes, John sure know what it is that people do. How people work. His hand is warm and sweaty in yours, indicating that he probably does not enjoy the contact and the chase (this time, _you_ being the chased ones) all that much.

Later you will reach towards him and crave this awkward touch, palm against palm, fingers clumsily grasping and sliding, skin against skin. It isn't comfortable and yet you cannot bring yourself to care. Because the feeling indicates that he is there, holding on to you, and you holding him back. Cooperation. Maybe for the last time.

You didn't expect John to be so short-tempered. He was living with you after all – and like all people who cared about you, he had to be somewhat long-suffering. The whole arrest fuss must have made him irritable even before the police superintendent thought it smart to open his podgy little mouth.

You almost wish you could thank John for what he's done, although it was stupid. It is ridiculous that you should feel such warmth because your flatmate acted on impulse and punched a man who insulted you. You are used to insults. They slide. They do not matter. Your brain has become used to them, being thrown at you, and does not take them into consideration.

But John doesn't work that way. In John's little mind, there are important things, Values with a capital V, and courage, righteousness, friendship, are part of them. John will not stop to think that it is stupid to punch a police superintendent because it will do neither you nor him any good. John is upset about the whole situation, angry at the police for arresting you, and when he hears condescending words against you in your own flat, he punches the man who dared utter them. It is not very clever, but John would argue he deserved it.

And for this stupid gesture of his, you are grateful. Not that you were scared when you were parted from him and taken into custody, seeing Moriarty's plan unravel before your eyes powerlessly. Not that you felt any shame being arrested in front of your landlady and for the entire street to see. Not that you despised how happy they all seemed to finally have a good reason to get back at you and humiliate you in every possible way. Not that it hurt to see how well Moriarty had managed to turn the effects of your personality on others against you. But still. Having one person supporting you so blatantly – having _John_ still refuse to doubt you, refuse to let others shout you down, was... good.

Later he'll say: "What's going on?" and you'll tell him the truth, the only truth you can tell him, before lying irreversibly: "An apology."

But for now all he's said is: "What now?" and all you could answer was: "Doing what Moriarty wants. Becoming a fugitive."

This is as big a clue John will ever get. Together, you run.

* * *

><p><em>No one's gonna wait for you<br>No one's gonna wait for you_

* * *

><p>"There's something I need to do."<p>

"What? Can I help?"

"No, on my own."

You walk off without looking back, cursing under your breath. "Is something bothering you? Maybe I can help." You shake off the memory. This has come sooner than expected. "I assure you, there is nothing of the sort." Now you have to hurry to the morgue before Molly goes home – fortunately, she always stays in late. There's no one waiting for her, after all.

You know you'll probably meet John at Bart's afterwards too.

Later you'll say "This phone call it's, uh... It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." Do what people do. "I don't want people thinking you're a fraud," he'd said. "Now people will definitely talk." You had admitted, "People have died," and Moriarty had hurled: "That's what people DO!" What people do.

But for now you don't know. You haven't done what people do yet; you are just planning it.

You'll meet John at Bart's afterwards. You'll say "It's all true" and you'll lie. But not yet – first you have to see Molly, and John has yet to go and see Mycroft.

_Mycroft_. Idiotic big brother. Well, he is in fact helping with John right now. But other than that, he really _is_ useless. He'll probably tell John he's sorry. Well, he'd better be – this time he certainly _is_ going to _owe you_ _one_. It might come in handy later on, though, to take care of dear old Jim's web, of heaven and hell and everything in between. You wonder absentmindedly if John has noticed the graffiti on the brick wall opposite the flat in Baker Street. "No one could act like such an annoying dick all the time." And you could only stare. Such bad taste – really, black wings? "No one could act like such an annoying dick all the time." Mycroft might beg to differ. "I don't want people thinking you're a fraud." Mycroft would argue that should be the least of his worries.

Black wings. "I'm not leaving, you know," he'd said, lying beside you in the darkness and warmth of his bedroom. IOU. So what if John had seen the graffiti? You specifically avoided mentioning IOU to him. That was for the best. After all, tomorrow, at this time of the day, you'll be...

You close your eyes and swallow, hard. "I'm not leaving, you know." Indeed, John isn't. You are. How long? _How long do we have left?_ The burning question, always floating on the surface of your mind, every time John mentioned a new girlfriend who could have potentially been the one, the future wife, the one to take him away. The burning question, always there, unanswered. You never thought you'd be the one to answer it.

Just a little over sixteen hours, John.

Something in your chest clenches. You ignore it. There is no time. You keep running, alone.

"There's something I need to do."

You are running, the both of you.

"What?"

Opposite ways.

"Can I help?"

You hasten your pace.

"No, on my own."

The countdown has begun.

* * *

><p><em>So do it now, do it right now<br>Don't waste a minute on the darkness and the pity sitting in your mind  
>And do it right now, and do it right now<em>

* * *

><p>"What is it?"<p>

"Paramedics. Mrs Hudson – she's been shot."

Once John had said: "I... I was back in Afghanistan, yet it was different." Obviously. It had been nightmare. "I was tending to the injured when I walked upon Charlie, and I couldn't save him, I had to see his life leaving him..." But this would not happen with Mrs Hudson, John. "And then you were there too, calling... calling me from the other side of a canyon." Not with Mrs Hudson.

"What? How?"

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract." Not quite. "Jesus. _Jesus_. She's dying, Sherlock." Wrong. "Let's go."

_"_You go. I'm busy."

Silence. You keep staring at empty space, pointedly. "I know you're for real," he'd said.

"Busy?"

"Thinking. I need to think." Clear and simple. Curt, to the point. Like he had said, once. "Your phrasing. When you tell the truth, you're clear and simple."

"You need to...? Doesn't she mean _anything_ to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!" And so the logical conclusion is that no one laid a finger on her, isn't it, John? You keep staring at empty space. "So you've been developing your deductive skills?" You remember his smile, the smell of his tea filling your living-room.

"She's my landlady."

"She's dying!_"_

You'd told him: "Maybe I'll really end up rubbing off on you with time", not quite believing it, not quite hoping._  
><em>

"You _machine."_

Not quite.

"Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own." Yes, indeed. "Can I help?" he'd said. "No. On my own." You keep staring at empty space.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

"No." Yes. "_Friends_ protect people."

Oh. Yes, indeed. That's how it it, in John's little mind, isn't it? Where those Values exist. Where punching a police superintendent is brave and right and not stupid and useless.

"You _machine,"_ he said. It was to be expected. The anger, the disappointment. It's good. It means John is falling for it. It means John has been fooled.

And that is good.

"Probably one of the killers you managed to attract," he said. Not exactly, but not that far-off. You did attract killers.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," you said.

"No. _Friends_ protect you."

When he is gone, you almost smile. Indeed, John.

Friends protect you.

* * *

><p><em>Everything will stop on a dime<br>Everything will crash into itself in good time_

* * *

><p>You look down. Well. This is going to be quite the fall indeed. Your gaze shifts to a car rushing at the corner of the street.<p>

Ah. Here comes his cab already.

You close your eyes for a second, preparing yourself for this. Then you dial his number.

John, dear John, always rushing to your side... but not this time.

"Hello?"

"John."

"Hi Sherlock, are you OK?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask! Please."

You wonder if the trembling in your voice was genuine or not. The begging definitely was.

"Where?"

Of course he listens. He always does.

"Stop there."

"Sherlock?"

"OK, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh God."

That look on his face, you're glad you're too far to see it properly.

"I... I... can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology."

And it is. Didn't you tell him? The best way to hide a lie and make it believable is to coat it with the truth.

Once John had said: "Is something bothering you? Maybe I can help."

"I assure you, there is nothing of the sort."

"Now I know you're lying."

"What? Why?"

"Your phrasing. When you tell the truth, you're clear and simple. Also, you're always lying or at least pretending when you start with 'I assure you'."

You look down and say: "It's all true."

"_What?"_

He sounds... offended. Offended by such a blatant lie. Perhaps he'll understand later? After the shock? Perhaps there's hope... for him. For you both.

"Everything they said about me." When you tell the truth, you're clear and simple. "I invented Moriarty."

The silence on the other end of the line is all too telling of how angry and hurt John is about you daring to lie so blatantly.

"Why are you saying this?"

You hear the accusation in his voice. The incomprehension too. It has been a while since you last confused him, and he's afraid – afraid of your intentions. But he does not doubt you, still.

Tears are needed here – for added effect. So is the shaking voice. "I know you're for real." And you had been grateful. Now you are grateful for your acting skills. Emotions are not your _forte, _after all.

"People have died," you'd admitted, echoing John's words. And Moriarty had hurled: "That's what people DO!"

* * *

><p><em>Do you wanna beat your own heart, beat your own heart<br>Or leave it behind, or leave it behind?_

* * *

><p>"I don't want people thinking you're a fraud," John had said. And you had stared.<p>

Now you look down and say: "I'm a fake."

"Sherlock..."

His voice. It's like his hand when it was in yours. Warm and sweaty and sticky and not entirely pleasant, awkward and alive and desperate. Hurt. Upset. To be protected. At all costs.

You must talk faster. End this. Before you do something stupid again and get him killed. You will not watch him die.

You almost laugh. Almost. Isn't this exactly what you're putting him through right now? Making him watch you die, so he will never doubt. Make him touch your corpse, take your pulse, _see_ your death, look it in the eye, undeniable, unescapable.

Talk. You must talk to him. Give him some hint, maybe, just a little more... So later he might think. Later he might deduce.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, in fact tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes..."

"OK shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the _first_ time _we_ met, you knew all about my _sister_, right?"

He is being clever, but not clever enough. Why would you ever mention Molly, and even Lestrade, in a suicide note? And 'anyone who will listen to you'? That's completely illogical. Just like you claiming to be a fake is preposterous. If only John could read between the lines... Only he knows you enough.

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

You hear a broken chuckle – yours.

"So you've been developing your deductive skills?" you'd said. "Maybe I'll really end up rubbing off on you with time." But there is no time left. This is the end of the game.

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." And because Moriarty was right and it isn't quite true that you don't have a heart, you add: "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

You cannot risk saying any more.

"No. All right stop it now."

Only John can make a plea sound like an order.

"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move."

Only you can make an order sound like a plea.

"All right."

He raises his hand towards you. He reaches out first. Slowly, you mirror the gesture. His hand had been warm and sweaty in yours, indicating that he probably did not enjoy the contact and the chase all that much. Palm against palm, fingers clumsily grasping and sliding. Skin against skin.

"I'm not leaving," he had once said. And you had whispered:

"I'm not leaving either."

* * *

><p><em>No one's gonna wait for you<br>_

_So do it now, do it right now_

* * *

><p>His hand had been warm and sweaty in yours. When he'd said "Nobody could fake being such a dick all the time," your gazes had locked, your lips had mirrored the ghost of a smile.<p>

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

He reaches towards you and you reach towards him as well. Beyond the irony, the cruelty of the ordeal is not lost on you. Yet nothing has even been so limpid. John must believe that you are dead. He must react accordingly. He must not give anything away. He must not try to go after you. All of this is obvious. Limpid. And yet...

"Please would you do this for me?"

There is a bitterness twisting your guts, something violent and disgusting and powerful.

"Do what?"

_Understand... please understand... Not now, because you're on edge and you can't think... Then you'll be in shock, but... _

"This phone call it's, uh... It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

People do many things. You've found out a lot about it, with John. People assume and lie and die. Others refuse to believe and fight and protect. And die, too. That is the common denominator in the end.

"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

For themselves. For their loved ones. John has a distressed gesture, as if about to drop his phone and run to you.

You realize you've never craved his touch so much. You realize nothing is more important than making sure he doesn't get closer.

It's time. No more hints. You shouldn't have given any in the first place. John will live. John must move on.

You must let go.

* * *

><p><em>Don't waste a minute on the darkness and the pity sitting in your mind<br>And do it right now, and do it right now_

* * *

><p>"I... I was back in Afghanistan, yet it was different. I was tending to the injured when I walked upon Charlie, and I couldn't save him, I had to see his life leaving him... and then you were there too, calling... calling me from the other side of a canyon."<p>

He had been close and warm and still sweaty from his nightmare. His voice had still been a little hoarse from shouting your name. You wonder if he will scream, this time. You wish he wouldn't. You know he will.

"Well, let me just tell you something. If you ever see someone falling in a chasm, don't jump after them. It is rather unlikely you'll have a chance to _catch _them."

You've done this completely wrong.

Incoherent.

Wavering.

Only John can make you so illogical.

"Leave a note when?" he says. Or croaks. His voice is not hoarse. But it is begging.

Begging you not to do what he already knows you will do.

Maybe there is a reason people leave a _note_, and not a phone call. You thought it would hurt, yes. You knew it would.

But you had no idea.

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't..."

You jump.

* * *

><p><em>Do it right now <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	6. Unus multorum

**A.N.: **I've used quotes from the episodes and John's blog in this chapter. Obviously, I'm not the author. For the blog, credits go to Joseph Lidster.  
><em>Edit: This chapter has been kindly betaed by Sianco, BritChick101, and Wingatron. Many thanks!<em>

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **"I feed upon it and extinguish it"

_**Unus multorum: **_"one of many" ; usually used to designate an average person.

**Warnings:**_Rating for this chapter is T (for dark themes)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter VI: Unus multorum<strong>

__song: Black and blue, by Ingrid Michaelson__

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Oh, I think I got you figured out<br>Boy, I think I know what you are all about  
>Finally, I can finally see you pull the darkness right down over me<br>But now I see_

* * *

><p>"You haven't said what you wanted to say."<p>

Well, yes, that happens. Some things take you by surprise. For instance when your best friend, who's still in his thirties, jumps from a building in front of you.

Even when you get to talk to him before he kills himself, you usually try to convince him not to – that is, when you have realized what he's about to do. Surprisingly, the first reaction isn't to say your farewells, but to keep him _alive_. Strange, isn't it?

But once he's dead and buried, you've got all the time you want to talk to his grave. For a few days, John hopes Sherlock will come back, or suddenly answer his rant in the cemetery – he does disappear sometimes and doesn't talk for days on end, too. But eventually he's always back. Not this time, though. One day John realizes he'll miss the madman's voice, and thinks it's stupid. Of all the things to miss... not that he doesn't miss anything else. But the voice? _Won't hear it any more..._ That's when a bloody crow decides to caw and John wishes he could shoot it. _Nevermore_. John doesn't even wonder why he would hear a crow from this room he started ranting, doesn't question his sanity – honestly, he doesn't care. That day, he vomits the lunch he had managed to eat, and breaks the bathroom's mirror. It's not like he's going to need it any way.

When Harry visits the first time, he wonders if he should worry. When she comes for the second time in three days and he notices she hasn't been drinking at all, he knows he should indeed. So he tells her. At first she's too stunned to reply anything, but her face says it all – _God, John, _you_ are worried? _Then of course she gets mad. What kind of sister does he think she is, if she can't even manage to be sober when her brother is in depression? Now it's John's turn to be flabbergasted. In depression? Him? What in the world is she talking about? He's angry, certainly. Incredibly so. He can't believe Sherlock dared do that to him – because he knows, he _knows_ the detective completely manipulated him, sent him away to do whatever he did on that rooftop before jumping, was aware he would come back on time to actually witness the whole sickening little act he had prepared. John couldn't forgive Sherlock for hiding all this from him, for keeping him out of the matter, whatever that matter was (and it drove John _mad_ not knowing, still not knowing, and God he would _never _know) and for bloody _lying_ to him until the very end. His last words to him had been bullshit. And that hurt more than anything.

Well, more than anything apart from the fact that he'd never see Sherlock again. John didn't know why the thought made him sick (literally). He had lost many mates in the war. But maybe precisely because it was the war, it was something to be expected. People die on the front. The army doctor himself risked his life and knew it. He'd lost patients. He'd lost friends. It enraged him and it hurt, but never did he feel such _emptiness_. Maybe after his parents' death? That certainly was unexpected. And still, it couldn't compare to this.

* * *

><p><em>Everybody knows that I'm a mess<em>  
><em>Everybody knows you stole the heart from out my chest<em>  
><em>Every thing you ever said was a lie<em>  
><em>You're hiding behind your sweet, your sweet goodbyes<em>

* * *

><p>Harry was wrong. This wasn't depression. John was a doctor, he knew the signs. Sure, the hopelessness was there, but because John was <em>John<em>, a soldier at heart, they held a literal meaning, and nothing close to _desperation_ (in which in fact, you're still hoping). There was no hope, and there would be no help. Nothing could make this better, and nothing ever would: this wasn't something John would cry about, it was a certitude. He hadn't gone back to Ella's. He didn't talk to Harry – not the way she obviously wanted him to in any case. He resigned from the clinic because he couldn't stand everyone's stares, either full of pity or somehow suspicious. In fact, Sarah herself had been about to ask him to leave, because even some patients weren't comfortable seeing him any more – couldn't trust him. He had cut to the chase and given his resignation. He probably should wait until the whole scandal had quieted down. He had broken his phone by throwing it at the wall one night, and he didn't bother to buy a new one. Who would text him any way? He absolutely didn't feel like putting up with all his ex girlfriends' crap – from 'You asked for it' to 'I'm so sorry do you want to meet up for a drink?' He almost found the first type more decent.

He hadn't lost interest in daily activities: he just no longer had any. No crime scenes, no chases through London, no dangerous and thrilling and crazy situations. No cases. No patients and no dates either, but he honestly didn't miss those. Didn't feel like getting laid or listening to someone complain about an aching throat.

He did have insomnia, but he never was a good sleeper to begin with, and he had always been prone to nightmares. Only now they involved more black curls and blood than sand and heat. True, he had lost his appetite. But he still ate. It wasn't his fault if more often than not his body would just reject the food. He still had his three meals a day, diligently, and so did the bucket of his toilets.

He wasn't agitated or violent: angry, yes, but in a cold, icily calm way. He only shouted at Sherlock's grave, not at anyone else. Not at Mrs Hudson when she asked him if he could take a look at the things in 221B, not at Harry who suggested it would be safer if he came to live with her. Not even at Lestrade who came to the funerals and babbled apologies on and on for a good five minutes. He didn't interrupt him, didn't punch him, didn't ignore and leave him. He looked at him and half listened. It was obvious how guilty the man felt, he was almost radiating self-loathing. Much more than John, whose conscience wasn't at rest either. Greg seemed to believe he had much more responsibility than John in Sherlock's death. And maybe he did, but John didn't think so.

_He_ had been the one closest to Sherlock. The one by his side less than an hour before he killed himself, the one calling him a machine and falling for a _bloody act_. The one Sherlock had called. The whole time John had been with Sherlock, ever since Moriarty's trial. And he still hadn't noticed anything. _You see, but you don't observe_. He tried to swallow the bile but the bitterness came back full force. He was glad when Lestrade was done flogging himself and looked up to him as if he were expecting – and even hoping – he would shoot him on the spot. John just nodded once, and went away. There was nothing he could tell the D.I. Yes, they both had made mistakes and were worthless, and if he was waiting for John to give him solace and salvation, he certainly got the wrong person.

* * *

><p><em>I'm black and blue 'cause I fell for you<br>You said you never would let me go  
>Ooh, how could I ever know?<br>I'm black and blue and in love with you  
>You said you never would let me fall<br>You never would let me fall, but I'm falling  
>You never would let me fall<br>You never would let me fall, but I'm falling_

* * *

><p>All in all, John didn't think his temper was short. People did get on his nerves, but his tolerance level wasn't low – quite the opposite, in fact. Mycroft hadn't been at the funeral – at least, John hadn't seen him, but he suspected the man to have watched the ceremony from afar. He didn't look for a black umbrella, though. When Holmes the elder – the only one left, John thought darkly – had visited him in his flat, after the doctor had ignored his cars and beautiful women holding a phone, he was thinner than John recalled. <em>Maybe we should do a campaign. 'Want to lose weight in no time? Kill the person you care most about. Results 100% guaranteed.' <em>The ex-soldier had then remembered that some people actually became bulimic instead, and corrected mentally. _Results_ _95%* guaranteed. *you may want to kill your dog first to test your reaction. _He wondered absent-mindedly when his thoughts had started to get so fucked up. Then without bothering to move from his armchair he had taken the gun laying by his side on the small table and pointed it at Mycroft. He wasn't trembling, didn't even look angry. On the contrary, his composure was perfect. The expression on his face was nothing but stoical.

"Get out."

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but John started to slowly squeeze the trigger. His composed gaze couldn't be less significant: _I don't particularly want to shoot you. But if you don't get out my sight _now_ I will. Without a blink_. Mycroft's face darkened, but he left wordlessly and never came again.

John didn't feel physically drained or fatigued, even though he barely slept. No trouble concentrating either. Every sensation was raw and his mind was clear. Clear enough to see exactly how much he had lost. He did not behave recklessly, except maybe when after a nightmare that was just _too _much he ran to the cemetery in the middle of the night and climbed the wall to shout at the grave. He always left before dawn though. Didn't want people finding him there and sending him to an asylum.

Sure, the pain in his leg was back, but he refused to use a cane again. He refused to even limp. It hurt, but he didn't walk differently from anyone else – well, maybe Sherlock would have been able to tell, still. He wasn't around to do so any more, though. John didn't tell anyone about the leg, nor about the trembling in his hand, and took up the habit of always putting his fists in his pockets. Not that he went out much.

OK, so maybe this _was_ depression. But what did that even mean? For the first time in his life he thought how absurd such a diagnosis truly was. He had just lost the most important person in his life. How could his grief be considered a _mental illness_? This was preposterous. He had almost snapped at Harry when she had used the word, but then decided it wasn't worth bothering. When other people were in the room, John was serene and cold. Composed. Lifeless, they thought. When he was alone, he would feel like shooting the wall, or himself. The one he truly wanted to shoot though was Sherlock. No, a bullet wouldn't be enough. He wanted to strangle him or beat him to death. He also wanted to kiss him and take him and never let go. One night, the urge to touch him was so unbearable that he had actually began to dig the earth frenetically in front of the gravestone. When he had realized just what he doing, and visualized his friend as a cadaver, he had jumped back and thrown up. John never went to the cemetery again after that. It was the following day Mycroft came to see him for the first and last time.

John's nightmares also involved a good deal of falling, of course. For both Sherlock and himself. He couldn't forget the dream he had had a while before the whole ordeal – he would hardly call it and 'adventure', now – and hated the irony of it. Tragic irony. That should only exist in ancient plays, not in real life. But nothing about Sherlock should have existed in real life.

The ex-soldier didn't feel the same emptiness as when he had come back from Afghanistan. Back then, is was only nothingness and worthlessness. Now though, the hole in himself was the reminder of something that had been ripped from his very being. He felt despoiled of a part of him that was irreplaceable and had held all the meaning, although not a vital one (and that was all the more cruel), like a professional runner losing his legs in an accident. _Phantom limb syndrome._ John didn't know it could work with missing people. He was often woken up by the sound of a violin at night. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock in the street every day. Whenever it rained he would smell his scent – even though he couldn't see the link. Every time he opened the door, he would be surprised not to see him rush in and rant about the stupidity of the police or gloat over a challenging murder. He stopped opening the door when someone rang and just waited for them to come in – he never locked. And whenever he went out, he'd close his eyes until he was in the staircase.

* * *

><p><em>Oh, I know I'm never gonna stop<br>I keep burning time away until I hit the top  
>One day, I'll wake up and take up to the open skies<br>And I'll be the one with all the sweet goodbyes_

* * *

><p>He was so angry with Sherlock and so utterly devastated that he couldn't picture himself in the future at all. Time had somehow stopped. Days went by, and John was falling a little farther every passing hour. Once, he looked at the date in a shop and was abashed to see it had only been a week since the funerals. He stood there, staring at the incomprehensible numbers as if they didn't make sense – and they didn't to him. It couldn't possibly have only been a week. He had seen Lestrade and Harry and Mycroft and Mrs Hudson and even Molly... She kept sending him emails to go out for a drink but after seeing her exhausted face at the funerals, John really didn't feel like chatting. She told him she had taken a week off from work (and that he could perfectly understand – she had been the one examining Sherlock's body, after all, and it must have been a blow) and that she'd be free whenever he'd want to meet.<p>

The thing is, he didn't. All he wanted was to revive Sherlock to kill him slowly and painfully, or better even, to make him go through exactly the same thing _he _had endured: distance himself without letting anything on and kill himself under his very eyes, just close enough for him to see everything without being able to stop it. Suicide wasn't so appealing if it couldn't make Sherlock suffer. A week. It had only been a week.

Would it always be like that from now on? The emptiness engulfing time. The pain eating the hours away so we became old unwittingly. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, then, mused John. It would, though. If a week had felt like a year, he didn't even want to start thinking about what a year would feel like. Oh, how he just wished he could murder the man. John remembered having written once on his blog that one day, he'd kill Sherlock. It had been after the consulting detective had used him as an experiment in Baskerville, testing his theory even though it involved terrifying John. How stupid. One doesn't know what it means, to kill. John had known, though. He'd kill men in Afghanistan. He'd kill a man for Sherlock. Still, him too used the common expression. _I'll kill him_. He was an average person after all. Who'd get angry and throw out stupid things – _Maybe Sally Donovan is right. Maybe he is a freak. - __It's not something I'll ever really understand and, to be honest, I'm not sure I ever want to understand it. To be that much of a psychopath. To be that above the rest of us. To be that dangerous. It's pretty terrifying. - You machine!_

John woke up with a start, panting and sweaty. So now he was dreaming of his own blog and of what he said to Sherlock's face when he was still alive. Guilt, then. Fine. So be it. _Alone protects me. No, Sherlock. Friends are what protects you. _He He just made it to the bathroom in time before his dinner went down the toilet once again.

John didn't understand what was the whole thing with throwing up – he didn't see the point. It didn't make him feel any better, didn't lessen the pain, didn't make him forget. Maybe it was his way of shooting at the wall. He drew a smiley face on the toilet lid.

* * *

><p><em>Falling, falling, over and over again<em>  
><em>I'm always falling, over and over<em>  
><em>But I'll get up, I'll make it<em>  
><em>I need some time to un-break it<em>  
><em>I feel like I'm falling, I'm falling far away from you<em>  
><em>It's what I need to do<em>

* * *

><p>Harry came the following day – three times a week, then. Now John should be more than worried. She said they'd go out for lunch. Of course, her brother didn't feel like it, and told her so.<p>

"What do you feel like doing, then, John?"

He stared at her blankly.

"Killing Sherlock."

And because Harry was crazy, and pretty cool too when she wasn't drunk, she nodded.

"OK."

They went to a wholesaler and bought a dummy (after Harry had argued a good half hour with the distributor). Next was the wig – they actually managed to find a rather convincing one, although John was adamant that Sherlock's hair had been much softer. Harry stared but didn't ask how in the world he could know such a thing. The clothes were a little more tricky. John didn't want to spend so much money on a shirt and trousers he intended to tear up eventually (it's always a risk, when playing with a knife or a gun). But Sherlock wouldn't have bought anything but the best – he was incredibly elegant for someone who claimed not to care about appearances. When John had questioned him about it, he had seemed surprised, and replied that _of course_ it wasn't about the look, John, but obviously for the feel of it – couldn't he tell the difference between plaid flannel and cotton twill? The doctor smiled. The idiot had such sensitive skin. _Had had_.

He suddenly felt giddy and had to hold onto the counter. Yes, the flannel one would be great, thank you. Harry didn't look at him like he was mad and throwing his money away. When they came out of the department store, she asked him if he wanted to murder his ex-flatmate in the room he was renting or somewhere else (the people walking past them in the street had exchanged puzzled and even worried glances, and John thought it would be quite amusing if they were to call Lestrade about it). He understood his sister was implying that using the gun in his new room wasn't a very good idea, unless he wished to move out right away ("_Not that I would mind, you know you're very welcome to come over, I'd be more than happy..."_) He shook his head. The room was fine, a good beating would do, and if he really needed to use more than his fists there was always the kitchen knife. She nodded.

"You owe me a lunch, though. If you don't want to go out, we can cook. Don't look at me like that, I've improved a lot! I'll see you tomorrow."

Of course. She was still worried, and would check on him. But John was grateful that she was trying so hard to be there without being a nuisance. He realized she was the only one he was almost fine seeing. Because she knew what being a mess meant, maybe? Or perhaps because she had never met Sherlock.

John went back to his room and straight to bed. He couldn't go on his blog any more, couldn't watch telly either, because he could hear every comment Sherlock would have made – he actually _heard_ them. Before turning the light off, he looked at the dummy and felt so sick he had to throw it in the corner of the room and hide it with some of his own clothes. Then he went to sleep, wishing he wouldn't have to wake up. That changed when he started dreaming, though. Of Sherlock, of course. _He gets off on it. He's a freak. Try fishing! I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.  
>My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher. Yet he elects to be a detective. What does that tell us about his heart? Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait. I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself. But initially, he wanted to be a pirate. So why do you put up with him? Because I'm desperate, that's why. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man... and I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one. Look, John, I'm afraid. My body is betraying me. I felt doubt! Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one. Goodbye, John. SHERLOCK!<em>

John sat up gasping in his bed and thought he would vomit on the spot, before remembering that he hadn't had anything to eat the previous day. Trembling with rage and sheer pain, he tried to regulate his breathing, for want of anything better. He couldn't deal with the anguish, but at least he could try to avoid a fit of rage. Or not. He held his head in his hands, feeling like he was about to explode. Then he remembered the dummy, and he did. He jumped out of bed, walked to the pile of clothes in the corner, tossed them around and gripped the puppet before throwing it violently at the feet of the bed. It wasn't a soft dummy, but one of those you can find in the glass display case of stores, and its fall broke the unbearable silence of the room.

"How could you... How _dare_ you do this to me?"

Maybe he had finally lost it. He couldn't care less. Throwing himself at the dummy he started beating it to a pulp - except that it wouldn't actually bruise nor bleed. John could, though, as he soon found out, punching and kicking the hard plastic repeatedly, bestially.

* * *

><p><em>Black and blue and in love with you<br>You said you never would let me fall  
>You never would let me fall, but I'm falling<em>

* * *

><p>John saw the only physical fight he'd had with Sherlock replay in his mind, that one on the street when he had asked him to punch him. <em>I've had bad days<em>. Well, if this wasn't bad, what was? He felt tears streaking down his cheeks and a wrath so deeply rooted it was consuming him. His punches became more frantic, he cut himself on the doll's chin. _I could cut myself slapping those cheekbones_. He smashed the faceless head onto the floor violently and tore the flannel shirt from the back, beating again and again, unaware of what part of his own body was hitting which of the dummy. He could only feel the tears and the pain.

"I hate you... I hate you so much! I'll never forgive you."

A gruesome crack came from the puppet and John realized jubilantly he had just managed to break an arm. As if this had renewed his energy, he grabbed the beaten body wearing half-torn clothes and hurled it at the closest wall savagely. He didn't think about the neighbours for a second. In fact, he didn't think, period.

"Why, Sherlock, why? I can't believe you did this to me.. I can't believe your last words to me were FUCKING LIES!", he roared, brutally pouncing on the damaged plastic carcass brutally.

Blow after blow after blow, devoured by anger and desperation, John never seemed to get enough. His voice was getting hoarse from shouting at the lifeless figure. His eyes burnt and the tears refused to stop. He wished the puppet could bleed and scream and cry too, but of course it couldn't, it was just a _doll_.

"I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you _so much_..."

He was strangling it from behind, pulling and pulling with all his might, kicking with his knee and if he could have bitten the other arm off he would have. Something in him had snapped and his whole demeanour was utterly feral. A dreadfully neat cracking noise made him come to a halt. Shocked, he slackened his grip and the dummy's head rolled onto the floor of the quiet room. John's gaze followed it with horror before turning back to the remains in his arms. John broke down.

A beastly wail escaped his lips as he pressed the headless chest against his own. Shaking uncontrollably, weeping like he had never wept, he embraced the broken body desperately and held onto it as if it were the world.

"I hate you, I hate you... I hate you so much..."

Weaving this mantra into the atrocious silence, he kept sobbing himself to exhaustion until he blacked out, never letting go.

* * *

><p><em>You said you never would let me fall<br>You never would let me fall, but I'm falling  
>And I'm falling, black and blue<br>It's what I need to do _

* * *

><p><em><em>.<em>  
><em>

__.  
><em>_

__.  
><em>_

__tbc  
><em>_


	7. Alea jacta est

**A.N.:** Many thanks to those of you who have reviewed, it really cheered me up! Hope you keep enjoying this story.

_Edit:_ This chapter was kindly betaed by BritChick101 and Wingatron. All my thanks!

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **"I feed upon it and extinguish it"

_**Alea jacta est: **_"The die has been cast"

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter VII: Alea jacta est<strong>

__song: A bird's song, by Ingrid Michaelson__

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>When I would play my song<br>You used to sing along.  
>I always seem to forget<br>How fragile are the very strong._

* * *

><p>"Still no answer?"<p>

"I'm afraid not, Sherlock. I don't think he'll give any."

Sherlock jumped from Molly's sofa and started pacing agitatedly.

"But it doesn't make sense! John _never_ turns down a pretty young woman. He just doesn't."

She blushed and came out of the kitchen with two glasses of water with ice.

"I'm not so young any more, really."

"A woman's life expectancy in England is 82.4 year old, Molly, of course you're young. And the mean age for women marrying in 2010 was 33.6 so you shouldn't worry too much."

"Right."

She laughed nervously and sat down, putting Sherlock's glass on the low table.

"Sit down and have a drink. You haven't eaten anything in a week."

"That's preposterous, I'd hardly be moving by now if that were the case."

"Really? But the fridge_–_"

"I didn't say I ate a lot. Please do pay attention."

"Of course."

She sighed. Seriously, the detective was such a child. It was as if his parents had just dropped him in her flat for a week and she was to baby-sit him until they came back to pick him up. Thing is, they weren't coming. Not his actual parents, of course. But _John_ wasn't coming. The good doctor truly must have been a long-suffering flatmate. _  
><em>

Sherlock was still pacing restlessly around the living-room. He'd been fidgety for the past week or so – he obviously hated being stuck in a flat all day. He really couldn't take the risk to go out at all until he left the country. So he had Molly do everything he couldn't manage from her couch, on which he had taken up residence like a big, awkward cat. Toby liked him. She'd been very surprised when she had caught him poking Toby as they both lay on the sofa. She certainly didn't think Sherlock would be the type to like pets. On second thoughts, maybe he didn't.

He was just bored. And depressed, too. Although he didn't even seem to realize this, he was moping around the flat like a lost puppy. The first two days, he hadn't uttered a word and had lain motionless on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and _thinking_. Hard. But once he had figured out everything he needed to know, boredom had settled in. He had Molly book him a flight to New York within a week (he was to leave the following evening, in fact, hence his edginess tonight), hand in receipts and tickets and poems to homeless people (she didn't even try to understand what was going on), and even lie to _Mycroft Holmes_.

That had been the worst part of all. Sherlock's strategy had actually been for her _not_ to lie: to concentrate on the facts (yes the body she'd examined was definitely dead, yes its DNA matched Sherlock's, etc.), which were all true according to the records, and find excuses for any lack of data. Of course Mycroft would find out eventually – because Sherlock didn't intend to remain hidden forever. But it was crucial that he'd notice something was wrong only after his younger brother had left the country for good. Well, that was what Sherlock had told her anyway, and Molly didn't want to question him any further. She said she'd help, and she would. It didn't matter if for some reason that the detective had to lie to her too.

Truth be told, she had been quite surprised at Sherlock's behaviour in her home. It seemed he didn't bother with appearances any more. Naturally she couldn't be a hundred per cent sure that he wasn't acting, but she believed that he was being genuine. That is, genuinely fitful. Not all crazy and excited like during a case, but alternatively cold and jumpy, distant and edgy. She wished she could do more for him – she'd truly do anything for that mad and brilliant childlike man. It had never occurred to her that the terrible detective with his winsome smile and incredible brain could be so... harried. Not weak, but definitely not strong or infallible like he claimed to be. It had come down to this because he had made mistakes, because his brother was a bastard to let him deal with Moriarty's mess, too, but mainly because he had been careless.

Yes, Molly wished she could give him more – protect him and pamper this new vulnerable facet that she'd never seen before. But she knew she could only do as he asked. Everything was in Sherlock's hands now, and he'd have to do this alone. She had to let him go.

* * *

><p><em>I'm sorry I can't steal you<br>I'm sorry I can't stay  
>So I put band-aids on your knees<br>And watch you fly away_

* * *

><p>A week already since the funerals, and John still hadn't called Molly back. No, emailed her back. The idiot seemed to have crushed his phone and decided it was pointless to replace it. Maybe things were worse than you thought.<p>

You had him followed and so knew where he was living now – strangely enough, you hadn't expected him to move out of Baker Street so quickly. In fact, he'd barely moved out at all. He just hadn't gone back, and Harry Watson had come to collect what was strictly necessary – clothes, his laptop, and so on. Not much. You found yourself strangely upset that he didn't even wish to take anything from 221B as a memento, something to remind him of you. It was an illogical reaction to an illogical assumption. You discarded it quickly and moved on.

He wasn't going to the clinic anymore, so he must have quit. Not the best idea according to you, but then again the constant stares and whispers must have been hard on him. The idiot. Why did he have to post such a stupid comment on his blog? Of course it'd made him look either pathetic or bonkers, or both. Hadn't he been the one saying that people would talk? What in the world had happened to make him even more stupid?

_His best friend died_, whispers in your mind that annoying voice that just won't shut up. _Not just died, killed himself. Under his very eyes. Lied to him until the end. And when I say best friend..._ You slam the door mentally on the unnerving murmur and try to think of something else. But there isn't. Everything else has been seen to already, and now all you can do is _wait_. You've always hated waiting. It is your definition of hell itself. Waiting obliterates the past because it is behind and none of your concern, and it dissolves the future because you only want to make it a present. Waiting is like being stuck in a never-ending 'now'.

Except you're not only waiting. You're haunted by what you're about to leave behind. Farewells. Why should they hurt so much? It doesn't make sense. This tight sensation in your chest doesn't make sense either. So you try to focus on New York and all the work that awaits you there. Dreadful business, too. You should be excited. Such prospects should be a thrill. And it is, partly. But it's overridden by fear. You've always enjoyed putting your life on the line to show just how clever you are – danger has always been your only flirt. But what a flirt! Nothing can be more exquisite than the adrenaline when there's a deadline (usually, quite literally so), more pleasurable than the sense of triumph after you've outsmarted a challenging criminal. It is indeed how you get off. Mind play + power play + leg work = bliss. Friends had never been part of the equation.

People in cases weren't people: they were victims, suspects, criminals, passers-by maybe, incompetent police officers and forensics. There could be targets, too, but those were just lives in the statistical sense of the word. Lives had to be saved because criminals usually tried to take them and the game pinned criminals as the enemy. But the Work certainly didn't consist in saving lives. The Work only consisted in winning the game: solving the case and catching the culprit. The criminal, by deciding to be an outlaw, had already decided to enter this game in which you put your life on the table before even starting to deal the cards. It was part of the thrill, after all. And you loved this game of life and death where you could prove yourself smarter than everyone.

But lives with a face weren't supposed to be part of the game. Data. Identityless human lives, that were all worth the same, because a life is a life regardless of the person. It never was a problem in the balance. By playing this, 75% chance that two lives will be lost, but by doing this, 50% chance that twenty will be, etc. As simple as that. Caring didn't help making the correct calculations, quite the contrary in fact. Yes, it was ideal to be a machine when doing your kind of job – and yours was unique, so unique you'd have to be a very special and peerless machine, and you quite liked the idea. The only problem was, you did care. Usually retrospectively, but still.

The doctor introduced nuances you were unaware of (for instance, the distinct ache that characterised a slight panic, often coupled with regret, and that made you want to make everything right again because you feared he would _leave_), and many pleasurable sensations too (a knowing smile which wouldn't provoke bitterness or cynicism because it was veiled in tenderness, shared giggle that were tinged neither with innocence nor with experience, but seemed to transcend both because it embraced darkness and laughed it off). He made everything more intense. He came too close. You didn't want to think about the implications of him being your colleague. He needed the thrill, after all, he was addicted to danger. And you were dangerous. _Not safe_, he had written on his blog. You stood a chance. But you still cursed your bloody addictive personality.

Perhaps you should have got yourself a cat, like Molly. Independent, clean and quiet. Not important enough to weigh in the game. John did. Mrs Hudson, too, and Lestrade, that was true. _We're not safe. Dark forces are at work, and they're coming to get Sherlock_. Stupid John with his stupid hyperbolic style. The idiot had been right though, in some way. And he had felt it before you even noticed the trap closing onto you. Stupid Mycroft and stupid Moriarty and stupid _friends_. But most of all, stupid you, for not seeing this coming earlier. You could have managed it differently then.

Now it's too late. Everything had quickened drastically in the last days, leaving you with nothing but a few hours to say goodbye. Not that you could actually say it, either. It all had gone so fast that you'd had no choice but to rip it apart – whatever 'it' had been, that you and John Watson had shared. Never had you gone through such an agonizing withdrawal. Because no one was there to force you: you weren't locked or tied down, you could just go out and take a cab and rush to John's side and make it all stop. You physically could. But then John would be killed within the day (and that was being optimistic).

That's how you realized how insane such an addiction was – who would be foolish enough to get hooked on a single original with no duplicate whatsoever, and so fragile and breakable as a _human life?_ It is even a double-edged sword: a human subject isn't just data and is highly unpredictable because it has a conscience and a mind (even if not as brilliant as yours). You cannot put it in your pocket or hide it in a cupboard, cannot use or dispose of it as you please. And if you lose it, you cannot obtain it anywhere in the world, because it was only one of a kind. Ha! And all those moronic common people who believed the use of _cocaine_ was risky behaviour. In that case, what tied you to John was plain suicide.

Suicide. You shiver. It wouldn't come to this, would it? Your informants from the homeless network had told you John was seen digging your grave and throwing up. In the middle of the night. Harry Watson had also left her brother's room with a disassembled dummy wearing a wig with black curls. You had read the poem at least three times to make sure you got the message right – perhaps the code had been altered. But no. It said "digging your grave" and "disassembled dummy". You really didn't need to ask 'Not good?' this time. Obviously, it wasn't good at all. But John? _John_? Soldier at heart, tough enough to put up with you and kill a man in cold blood to save your life, long-suffering and forgiving John... A strong man.

Wasn't he? And what about you?

* * *

><p><em>I'm sending you away tonight<br>I'll put you on a bird's strong wing  
>I'm saving you the best way I know how<br>I hope again one day to hear you sing_

* * *

><p>"Sherlock? Sherlock."<p>

"Mm?"

"We should take care of your hair, now."

"Oh. Right."

Molly was enjoying this. Well, she thought she would. Actually, cutting the detective's soft curls as he was staring blankly at a mirror he wasn't seeing, she felt like she was preparing him for his execution. She winced.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's fine."

"I'm not going on the electric chair, Molly. I'm just flying to New-York."

"Ha ha, yes, of course! It's just... you know... your hair..."

"You're crying. Why are you crying?"

"Oh I'm just being silly..."

"You're always silly. But you're not always crying. Tell me."

She smiled and wiped away her tears. She'd never seen that side of Sherlock either. John had, though. She remembered him writing on his blog that his flatmate looked like a twelve-year-old, and just didn't understand why it was normal to care. It was almost sweet, the way he was genuinely asking. She took a deep breath and patted his head.

"It's all fine. Let's get the bleach on now, shall we? It might tickle a bit."

"Mm."

"And Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

She chuckled. He really _did_ look like an abandoned puppy.

"Just don't forget to come back."

* * *

><p><em>You know we're not so far away<br>Get on a boat, get on a train  
>And if you ever think you're drowning<br>I'll try to slow the rain_

* * *

><p>"Did it really have to be <em>orange<em>?"

"It's not _orange!_ The man on the picture was a red-head! Look, it's a perfect match."

"It's dreadful."

Molly sighs. The previous night, you were so absorbed in your thoughts that you went and curled on the couch without commenting on your new hair colour. But then this morning with the day light you saw, and were appalled.

"Well, you might have wanted to think about that _before_ you picked a fake identity who happened to have red hair!"

You pout.

"I didn't really have much choice. No time to obtain other papers, I had to do with those I already had in my possession – _male_ ones, too. This one's perfect because it's an entirely fake persona but who's registered _everywhere. _And shares my fingerprints, too. "

"Right. I'm not even going to ask. Anyway, you don't have to keep it that way in New-York, do you?"

"No, I certainly won't."

Molly laughs softly as she tightens your tie while you keep sulking.

"See? It's all good. You can pick something less flashy, next time."

She adds dreamily:

"Maybe auburn, dark blond..."

"Blue."

"Yes, blue... wait, blue?"

You nod seriously.

"OK... Be sure to send me a picture."

"You know that's not going to be possible."

Brushing your bright red hair, she laughs whole-heartedly.

"That's too bad. Guess we'll have to bleach it again and dye it blue when you get back."

Your lips curve but the smile doesn't reach your eyes. _I believe some people might want to do a lot worse than just die my hair blue when I come back. If I come back._

You're not scared of dying – there's a risk, but you are quite sure you won't. You're not an idiot, after all. And you've flirted with danger long enough to be familiar with it. Statistically you stand a good chance, even if what you are planning to do is crazy – precisely because it is crazy, in fact. But coming back is a different matter altogether. You don't know if it'll ever be safe to do so.

_That's a lie._

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

_You're just afraid to come back and see everyone has moved on. You're dead to them. To John..._

"Why indeed."

You look up at her sharply. Your eyes meet and she squeezes your hand. She sounded so much like him.

"Sorry. I'll get prepared then."

"I apologize for the inconvenience."

"What are you talking about? This is so exciting!"

You fall on the couch and roll on your back, tilting your head. You smirk up at her.

"Exciting to put on a disguise? Or to pose as my wife?"

Molly splutters and throws one of her pink cushions at your head.

"You terrible, insufferable man!"

"Oh, don't get so violent, _dear_. You'll ruin my hair."

She shakes her head and goes into her room to change.

Oh, she was going to miss him.

* * *

><p><em>In two years or so<br>Drop me a line  
>Write me a letter<br>I hope to find you're doing better, better than today, better everyday  
><em>

* * *

><p>"Are you coming?"<p>

"Right away, honey!"

She smiles at the cab driver and pays him before running after you. You've been on edge for the whole drive, and there's this nagging feeling tightening your chest again. If you didn't know better, you'd say you have asthma.

"Why, _why_ do I have to be your wife the one time I'm hit on by a nice-looking guy?" she mumbles.

"It has nothing to do with you being married to me. Don't you know the saying? Gentlemen prefer blondes."

"And I'm sure you're talking from experience."

You send her a glare, but she responds with a winsome smile. She does look pretty: the type John would love having as a girlfriend. You frown. Molly takes your arm and presses it softly.

"Jealous, are we?"

You quite admire how she manages to doublespeak and wonder why you never noticed what a capable woman she truly is. Well, you probably just didn't bother. Not that it mattersnow. Unwittingly, you press your hand to your chest. The vice of pain tightens around your ribcage. This is preposterous.

"Is everything all right, James?"

Christ, of all the names this idiotic red-head could have been called, it had to be _James_. James Harvest. What a stupid name.

"Yes, it's fine."

"Well, off you go, then. I can't come with you once you've gone through customs" she says, readjusting his jacket.

What's with you? Finally, you don't have to wait anymore. You're leaving for good. Everything begins now: the game is on! There's no time to look back. The die has been cast.

You remember how it felt when you left John on the side of the road by the police station. That had been both clever and good – Moriarty was in that cab after all, he had made it quite clear with his silly light and painting game on the building across the Met – you were only making sure not to involve the doctor in this. It had made you realize just how accustomed you had become to have him by your side as a partner – a _colleague._ Well, you didn't have much time to dwell on it as you had to watch Jim's little fairy tale (and you really wanted to punch the man, because he was right, of course, and now you could see the storm coming closer and that meant less time left with _John_).

Yes, it had been both clever and good – the smart _and_ the right thing to do. Just like jumping off the roof in front of him. Just like what you are about to do now: fly away. The knot in your chest is back and the growing void too. But this time there's nothing to distract you from it, no madman's video to take your mind off it.

So you stare at Molly. She seems to be in pain. Why is she making that face? _Oh_. Right. It's _your_ face, actually. _You_ are hurting. Empathy, was it? But why would you be hurting? This plan of yours is brilliant and even _thoughtful_ of the others, something that never was your priority. It's brilliant, and it's what John would have done, you're sure of it, so why in the world would it...

That's when you feel the wetness on your cheeks. Crying? You're actually _crying_? That is completely unnecessary – not useful in the least. And you're not one to waste time being absurd – _oh_.

Of course. It isn't logical, indeed: because they're real tears. Your broken laugh sounds like a sob. The tears were fake at Bart's, and now they're real? This is all so messed up. You're so messed up.

And so you're standing there, in the middle of Heathrow, dumbfounded, staring at Molly's figure without even seeing it. You're so flabbergasted that she actually comes into focus again, and you desperately try to stop the flow – but you didn't choose to start it, and you know you won't be able to decide when to end it either. This is utterly ridiculous. Why now of all times? There's nothing dangerous involved, nothing intense at all, nothing traumatizing like jumping off a building in front of the one you...

Maybe that's it. Because there's nothing.

Suddenly Molly is hugging you, and you find yourself at a loss for words.

"It's all right, darling. It's not going to be that long, I'm sure. I know you'll miss me, but we can call and skype."

You're so shaken that it actually takes you more than a second to understand what she's talking about. Of course. A full-grown man weeping in an airport isn't a very common sight, and people have been – still are – staring. There are those damn cameras everywhere as well. Anything suspicious, anything at all, could alert either the _angels_ or the _devils,_ not to mention some pawn in dear Jim's web or, even worse, _Mycroft_. Molly is being clever – in fact, she is making up for your own blunder. _Sentiments_. They really are troublesome.

You hug her back, and breathe in deeply. This is it.

"I'm not jealous. You should find someone", you whisper into her ear.

And then you're gone.

* * *

><p><em>I'm sending you away tonight<br>I'll put you on a bird's strong wing  
>I'm saving you the best way I know how<br>I hope again one day to hear you sing_

* * *

><p>The plane is full and the alleys are crowded when you get on. Stupid, stupid James Harvest. He'd never fly in business class – not to mention first class – and so you had to book a ticket in economy class. You forget it's actually Molly who had to pay the bill, since <em>you<em> are dead.

Airplanes. Who got the crazy idea of putting as many people as possible in the narrowest wagon one could imagine, and sending them up into the air for several hours? The meals weren't even _disappointing_, they were plain dreadful. And _God_, were the TV screens _really _necessary? You glare at a wailing baby. _Shut up. Look, I'm crying too, and I'm not screaming my lungs out. It's a wonder you're even considered to have a brain. _

Why did your seat have to be at the very _back_ of the bloody hell-machine on wings? And all those people fussing and moving and _talking_... You can hear everything and it's driving you mad. All those inanities uttered in so many languages – how many? You count. 12. _No. 13_, you correct as you spot a Japanese couple arguing by a window.

「なぜあの女と不倫したのか？」_("Why did you fool around with that woman? ")_

「そんな．．！どんなことがあっても卑弥呼のことを騙そうという気持ちにならないぞ。」_("What are you on about ? I would never deceive you, Himiko!")_

「本当？」_("Really?")_

「当たり前だろう！決して浮気をしなかったぞ。」_("Of course ! I've never been unfaithful to you.")_

「違うんだ。」_("Wrong.") _you drop as you walk past them, getting more irritated by the second and tramp away muttering to yourself 「明らかに嘘をついている。何とばかなのだろう**。」**_ ("**Obviously**,__ he's lying. How foolish can she be?")_, leaving the poor couple speechless.

You reach your seat at last, and you want to kiss Molly because she's wonderful: it's a single seat. At the very back, indeed, but with nobody next to you. You let yourself fall onto the seat and secure your belt – they're going to announce it in a minute anyway, and you won't be listening. You close your eyes and shut your senses off – all of them but touch and taste, although you wish you could. There's a metallic taste on your tongue. How _ironic_. Closing your eyelids doesn't stop the tears. It's ridiculous. They don't concur at all with your blank face.

Trying to shrug it off, you curl up in the synthetic blanket so as to look asleep – and not because the tightness in your chest is choking you and will no longer be ignored, naturally.

It will pass though, you know it will. And then only emptiness will remain.

* * *

><p><em>I'm saving you the only way that I know how<br>I hope again one day to hear you sing  
>I hope again one day to see you bring your smile back around <em>

_Again _

* * *

><p><strong>xXx<strong>

**.**

**.**

**.**

_**tbc**_


	8. In vacuo

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **"I feed upon it and extinguish it"

_**In vacuo:**_"in a vaccum", "in isolation"

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

**Edit:** This chapter was kindly betaed by BritChick101 and Wingatron. Many thanks!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter VIII: In vacuo<strong>

__Ghost, by Ingrid Michaelson__

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Do you remember when the walls fell<br>Do you remember the sound that the door made when you closed it on me  
>Do you know that I went down to the ground<br>Landed on both my broken-hearted knees_

* * *

><p><em><strong>You've got mail<strong>_.

John doesn't even remember turning his laptop on. Oh. Right. Harry must have done it for him. It does seem like she was there only a moment ago. He's stopped keeping track. He isn't quite sure what the day is, nor does he care – it's not like he's expected at work or anywhere. There is no use in counting anymore.

No use in counting the days since Mr. Genius has last had anything to eat.

No use in counting the hours until he can leave the clinic and join the detective on a case.

No use in counting the minutes every time his friend is out of sight just for a bit too long.

No use in counting the seconds he takes to answer a text...

Was everything always so useless? John cannot remember. There is a spring in him that has been broken, and he plays with it idly, poking it, watching it bounce back, because he has no idea how to fix it. The one who had fixed him is dead. And he can't help but feel that it is much worse to be an abandoned puppet than just a crippled one.

He clicks and the only email he's got appears on the screen. It's Molly again. She keeps writing to him, and he has no idea why in the world she's so intent on meeting for a drink.

Or for lunch. Or for a movie. Or for a play. Or to go shopping because she needs a new white coat (as in the one she wears at the mortuary – and yes, she did actually ask him out for such a thing). John had stopped counting that too.

Molly's always had feelings for... well, not for John. Is she so desperate she only wishes to hold onto someone who looks nothing like her lost love but who was close enough to him to remind her of him? _Her lost love_. John snorts. It just sounds so bloody stupid.

And bloody stupid it is indeed. He washes his dishes absent-mindedly and doesn't even notice he's switching from an activity to the other – his laptop with Molly's unread email lies forgotten on the table. He washes clean his plate – the only one. He doesn't need more. Not that plates were very used when he was still living with... Well, it's not like the detective ate a lot, anyway.

But John does eat, and quite earnestly so. Admittedly it ends up under the smiley face on his toilet, but still, he prepares his three meals per day, and swallows them. Then throws them up. And the next day swallows them again.

When Harry saw the smiley face she thought he had gone bonkers – and that's quite telling, for Harry never was the wise one of the two of them. But maybe he _has_ gone bonkers. It doesn't really matter though – nothing does, these days. Sometimes at night when he's only half awake, John wonders what this strange feeling of _indifference_ is all about. Then he remembers and usually pays a little night visit to his smiley friend. _Well, when I say friend..._

He tenses and closes his eyes, trying to gulp down the bile slowly rising in his throat. He abruptly puts down the glass he was washing and goes to sit at the table, breathing deeply, trying to regulate his pulse. A distraction. He needs a distraction or he'll go mad – that is, if he isn't already. But he can't work yet – the scandal is still too topical, and he'd just encounter the same problem as at the clinic anywhere he goes.

He looks up and sees Molly's email on the screen. Molly. How can she be coping, when the one she had set her eyes on even though he clearly wasn't interested is definitely gone? She certainly loved him. _Not as much as I do_. John slams his fist on the table in an attempt to stop the trembling, and fails. He sighs and his gaze stops on the screen. He isn't aware of how long it takes for the words to come into focus and for him to actually see them.

_Hello again_

_I was wondering, would you like to go to the pub this Saturday? Mike told me there's this Irish one you guys go to sometimes. I'm not much of a drinker but I always like the atmosphere in a pub! Well, not that I go that often, but... Please mail me back :)_

_Molly _

John doesn't remember closing his laptop, nor going out for a walk. When the world comes back into focus and it's raining cats and dogs outside, he looks blankly up at the sky and thinks he should really stop switching off like that. He notices that he's standing in front of a restaurant and people are eating. All right. Dinner time then. He makes his way back to the studio, casually wondering how long before he sees the smiley face again.

* * *

><p><em>I didn't even cry<br>'Cause pieces of me had already died_

* * *

><p>A month. It had been a month already and John hadn't replied to even one of her emails.<p>

Molly was starting to become desperate.

Maybe she just wasn't his type. Sherlock had said he didn't have a type, as long as the woman was attractive, but there really was nothing attractive at all in her, and she couldn't die her hair blond out the blue just to attract John's attention – first of all because it wouldn't attract only _his_ attention, and she was convinced that Mycroft was already keeping an eye on her, and secondly because she had a distinct feeling it would fail.

_"_Obviously..." she mutters to herself while putting on her pyjamas. "It's not like he's just lost his best friend and the man he loves, _why_ wouldn't he want to flirt?"

She falls back onto the couch and thinks of the last time Sherlock lay there. She misses him terribly, so she can only imagine how John must feel.

"No, actually, I can't" she corrects herself. "_I_ know he isn't dead."

Playing absent-mindedly with Toby, she goes on as if she were talking to him.

"Maybe I should just ask Lestrade to find his address for me and stalk him. I can't believe he hasn't told anyone where he lives! I think his sister knows, though... Really, Sherlock should have given me some contact details before he went, and not that crazy list only a mother or a wife would write."

She takes said papers which were lying on the table and lets her gaze travel over it, catching pieces. She knew it by heart now. It was titled « Habits and Preferences » and she had found it upon her return from the airport. Sherlock had left it on the table. It started with:

**Sartorial notice:**

_**- Has no taste, so no use in buying him anything expensive. He won't wear it.**_

_**- Shirts: mostly chequered and quite sober, certainly more of the classic type. Owns two plain red shirts of different shades - red suits him. Wears ties only for professional matter, only owns two – if you can get rid of those, would be a big improvement for his career.**_

_**- Likes vests but only owns one – grey, dull. Goes well with his eyes though. Still, please do not add any more vests to his wardrobe. Not to mention the jumpers.**_

_**- Actually I should mention the jumpers: if you really have to buy him one, prefer the green and blue shades. He'll always like brown better, but he has no taste in that matter.  
><strong>_

_**- Trousers: mainly jeans, always in the darker shades. Owns only one suit – a brown one he fortunately doesn't wear often. If he wears it when he meets you, it's a good sign – sometimes used for first dates. **_

_**- Shoes: one pair. That dreadful brown one. Well, not so dreadful when polished, but he only does so on dates – another sign you want to look for. He does have a black pair but never wears them. Just don't buy him shoes in any case, because he would want to try them on and check how comfortable they are before purchasing them. You might want to consider shopping with him, though. **_

Molly chuckled softly as she drank her warm milk and let her gaze wander on the other pages randomly.

- _**Rather sits on the left side of the fireplace when there is one – actually, rather sits on the left side in general, or facing the window. Be mindful in restaurants.  
><strong>_

Here the detective had added quickly, like an afterthought, and as if reluctantly: _**prefers head of the bed on the window side too**_

Molly shook her head, half-amused, half-dejected. Did the detective really think they would get there when they were both hopelessly in love with him? He probably thought they would precisely because of that, in fact.

'Sentiments' truly weren't his area.

* * *

><p><em>I'm a ghost<br>Haunting these halls  
>Climbing up walls that I never knew were there<em>

* * *

><p>John is tired of seeing his deceased friend everywhere he goes. He'd never realized London was so full of mops of black curls and blue scarves and ridiculously cool long black coats. The worst is when he actually sees his face when a stranger turns to him: it always takes a few seconds for the actual person to come into focus, usually looking quite worried at John's shocked stare. Or sometimes even slightly frightened. Is he really starting to scare people?<p>

In any case, he's fed up of seeing him everywhere, and so he has stopped wandering the streets and the parks. It reminded him too much of when he'd come back from Afghanistan and was but a shadow of himself. Now he's not even sure to be a shadow.

Harry still comes almost every day as if he were an old man or a handicapped relative she'd have to take care of. Maybe that's what he's become, he wonders idly. He keeps telling her he's fine, though. Surprisingly, she doesn't seem to believe him.

But it's true. He shaves and goes out every day. He does his shopping, prepares various and balanced meals, reads his emails. OK, so he doesn't answer them, but people will leave him be eventually. He doesn't smoke, doesn't drink even beer, doesn't indulge in anything dangerous.

Right, he's definitely not fine, then. Maybe he should get drunk and start smoking and take up something stupid like drugs. There may even be some left at the flat. He has no intention of going back there, though. Drinking, then? Not the best idea, if Harry's history is anything to go by. Not that he has anyone to divorce with or anything to screw up now.

Opening his laptop, he checks his mails lackadaisically. There's one of Molly (again) and one of Bill Murray. Both of them have been writing for a while now, although Bill is less insistent because he's also in touch with Harry and knows not to push it. On the other hand, John receives an email for Molly almost every day. The poor girl must truly be feeling lonely to be so keen to meet up with him – or what is left of him in any case.

_Hello! It's me again._

_My cousin came in town this weekend and he's put on so much weight I hardly recognized him! He brought me some clothes that don't fit him any more, for my boyfriend or something, and since we both know I don't have one... They certainly wouldn't fit Mike either. If you're interested, shall we meet so you can see if there is anything to your liking? I personally find the golden-brown suit very nice, but I've never seen you in one so I don't know if you'd wear it. Anyway, keep in touch! _

_Molly_

He has no idea how she manages to always find a new reason for them to see each other. All in all she is rather creative. The cousin, though? No woman had ever come up with such a lame excuse. On second thoughts though, with Molly, it is probably not even an excuse; perhaps her cousin really did come. John would have laughed if he had remembered how to.

Next he reads Mike's email. He's asking if he'd like to go the pub on Friday, and John ponders: why not? Maybe he should try and deal with this like common blokes – drink himself to death once and for all and see where it leads him to.

He stands and goes to the kitchenette to make some tea. Every time he does so he is reminded of Mrs. Hudson. He should feel terrible about not going to see her or not even sending her any note as to his whereabouts, but all he feels is sharp pain. Anything related to Baker Street is like a shot – and John would know. A very special kind of bullet though, that doesn't kill you even if you're riddled, and leaves you hanging.

* * *

><p><em>And I'm lost<br>Broken down the middle of my heart  
>I'm broken down the middle of my heart<em>

_You know you make me a ghost_  
><em>You make me a ghost<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong><span>Tastes<span> **_

_**:: takes milk in tea and coffee**_

_**:: strawberry jam **_

_**:: likes apples (yellowish ones) **_

« Yellowish ones », how typical of the detective. Of course he wouldn't bother remembering apple names. Molly chuckled as she bit into her sandwich – didn't have time to make anything today, it had been a long night at the mortuary.

She had left Sherlock's list on the table just like a keepsake – as if not putting it away would mean he'd come back to them safe and sound. And so every morning and every night she'd let her eyes travel down the lines, thinking of the detective. And of John.

The ex-soldier still wasn't answering any of her emails. She would have been extremely worried by now if she hadn't set her mailbox to receive confirmation that what she sent had been opened. And it always had. John was reading each and every of her silly attempts to meet up, and he never answered. It made her feel like a fool, and she would have given up already if not for Sherlock's plea.

_"I'm not jealous. You should find someone."_

She understood now that those words meant that even if she wasn't the right one for John (as it was obviously the case), she should encourage him to move on.

"It's not so much « moving on », though, is it" she mused. "They didn't even get a chance to begin."

* * *

><p><em>I'm an invisible disaster<br>I keep trying to walk but my feet don't find the solid ground  
>It's like living in a bad dream<br>I keep trying to scream but my tongue has finally lost its sound_

* * *

><p>You must cut off the dead stems from a plant in order for it to keep growing, they say. John is very well aware, thank you. Such a stupid metaphor when applied to human beings.<p>

Not that Mike is stupid or anything. He was just trying to be supportive. He's worried about the doctor, all the more so as he had seen what he was like before meeting the consulting detective. And so he can tell this is worse. Yes, the sleuth can do more damage than a war. _Could._

John's legs are wobbling and his head is killing him. Never mind the drinking. How can alcoholics deal with the hang overs? Right, with time they must feel like shit all day long anyway, so it doesn't really matter. But John doesn't need this to feel sick.

He forces a grin at the smiley face. No more drinking, they agree. Too much trouble.

The doctor decides he can skip lunch today (and thus his afternoon visit to his newest friend). He just makes some tea, without milk because he forgot to buy milk – and at the thought he thinks he'll throw up again.

When the doorbell rings he knows Harry must have had Mike on the phone. She's pressing it more insistently, and he can even picture her frown. Or maybe her excitement, because she wants to know if he feels better, now that he got completely wasted. Great, now he's analysing everything like... He stands to meet her at the door.

Excited, then. However her face drops when she meets his eyes. They're probably still empty, thinks John, and he wonders if they look like a dead fish's. He chuckles at the thought, and Harry stares. Yes, yes, he's all right, it's fine. Still a bit hammered is all. She would know, wouldn't she?

That was uncalled for and he knows it. Harry's been doing her best for him, and he is very well aware that she hasn't had a drop of alcohol since... since. He should be able to formulate this, even mentally. _Say his name_, he thinks, and he tries to will himself to utter something. Nothing comes out.

The flat fills with a high-pitched voice – Harry's when she's angry – and he grasps a few words. _'I know this is hard but... a month... I'm really trying... can we do so you get a grip? You have to get a grip!' _Oh yes. He sure does. Thank you, Harry. Sorry, Harry. Yes, he'll start looking for a job again, even something small, where he doesn't have to actually meet patients (as if that existed in his field of work – what can't she understand about the word 'doctor'?). Answer his emails? But he does, he does. Answered Mike's. Yes, he won't get drunk again, too messy, the smiley agreed.

… not good? Obviously not. After he's tried explaining for ten minutes that _no_ he doesn't _actually_ hear the smiley face he drew on his toilets' lid talk to him, he manages to get Harry out of the room.

She is trying, really. But now John would rather she stopped.

He notices she's turned his laptop on and has put it obviously on the table so he would read his emails. Once again John feels like an old man whose children and grandchildren are desperate to keep occupied.

Fine. He'll read the stupid mail. What else is there left to do?

_Hello, it's me again._

_A friend who lives in the countryside and has an orchard just asked me if I'd like any Lodi apples because they've had so much this year they can't seem to exhaust their stock! _

_Do you like apples, by any chance? _

What in the world. He stares at the screen dumbly and idly wonders if Molly isn't losing it too. Then again, maybe not. Wasn't she always like that? Even when...

He stands up abruptly. All right. Time to go out for a walk.

* * *

><p><em>I've got to say goodbye<br>To the pieces of me that have already died_

* * *

><p>Molly wished she could contact Sherlock and tell him to come back at once. She knew it wasn't possible, and she knew he was doing all this for a very good reason – namely, to keep the people he loved alive. A good enough reason, if there ever was one.<p>

She sighed. What else could she do? There had to be something that would stir John. Other than the detective, that is.

She spread out the papers on the table and looked up the list to find some kind of clue. Her gaze stopped on the section « Presents ». Well, they were nowhere near exchanging presents at this point. Still, she skimmed the page.

_**Presents**_

_**:: loves tea but forget about a mug, he's got this horrible army one with a cap badge and the rod of Asclepius – if you manage to find a more hideous one, feel free to buy it for him. But I think he'll keep using the one from the RAMC (you know how it goes, in arduis fidelis...)**_

(in fact, Molly didn't, because she couldn't read Latin and didn't care much for regimental mottoes)

_**:: next you'll think he likes to write his blog. For reference, if you ever want to buy him anything electronic to go with his laptop, please keep in mind that the lid is dark red. Not that he's very sensitive to clashing colours, but...**_

_**:: has only one belt (I'll let you guess the colour) but it's in good shape and since he only likes plain things in general, it's no use buying him anything fancy. One belt seems to suffice.**_

_**:: quite sensitive to the cold (bed next to heater) but doesn't wear any scarf (he'd look like a cuddly toy with one any way, what with his jumpers) doesn't have a proper coat either but wouldn't wear it so don't bother. He seems quite happy with the only two jackets he has, but surprise! they're not brown. Of course, why would he bother matching it with his only pair of shoes? **_

At this Molly burst out laughing.

When did Sherlock even write this? Probably the very night before he left London. She could very well imagine him, scribbling it down while in some impossible position on the sofa.

* * *

><p><em>I'm a ghost<br>Haunting these halls  
>Climbing these walls that I never knew were there<br>And I'm lost  
>Broken down the middle of my heart<br>I'm broken down the middle of my heart  
><em>

* * *

><p>John wakes up in the night. Just like that, out of the blue. He's not gasping, not panting, not trembling. It's not a nightmare. Why did he wake up?<p>

His chest feels crushed and he looks around to see if anyone may have punched him. Of course, no one is in the room. He palpates his torso for any sign of injury, and naturally doesn't find any. Only then does he feel the wetness on his face. Oh.

He puts his head back on the pillow and lets the tears flow. He doesn't scream or cry out in despair. Weeping doesn't ease the weight in his chest. It's no longer just tightness: it is as if his whole ribcage had turned to lead and was squashing his organs. Rolling on the side, fists clenched, he embraces the pillow desperately. He presses it against his body and sobs into it quietly.

He can feel a hand on his right one, holding it, and he presses back into thin air.

The hours pass and when his alarm goes off, he still cannot let go of the cushion and of the ghostly hand.

_I won't live through this._

He buries his face deeper in the pillow.

* * *

><p><em>You know you make me a ghost<br>Oh, you make me a ghost  
>You make me a ghost<br>You take the breath all away from me, you take it away  
><em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tips:<strong>_

_**:: short skirt and hair down for first date **_

_**:: if he stands with his hands in his back, not a good sign – he's never on soldier mode with girlfriends, but foolishly relaxed **_

_**:: since I'll be gone, he might not want a dull girlfriend anymore because he won't have me to provide the thrill – you have to make him see the battlefield**_

_**:: encourage him to write on his blog and compliment him on it. He didn't like it when I criticized it (although you must admit there are good reasons to do so – actually you know what, don't admit it, he'll like you better). In fact I recommend ego boosts in general, on a regular basis (but don't be too much of a flatterer either)**_

_**:: likes to notice things about you and point it out to you to prove he's observant – which he still poorly is **_

Molly smiles wistfully. _No, Sherlock. That was only with you._

* * *

><p><em>I don't cry<br>I don't try any more  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Hello! Yes, it's me again. There's a leak in my kitchen and I can't find where it's coming from, I checked with the neighbour upstairs but he doesn't seem to have anything. I'm really sorry to bother you with this, but I'm at a complete loss as to what to do and I'd like to try and see before calling a plumber because they take so much money even if it's something small you could have fixed yourself! So, if you have any time to come and see... <em>

_Molly_

* * *

><p><em>I'm a ghost<br>I'm a ghost  
>And I'm lost<br>Broken down the middle of my heart  
>I'm broken down the middle<em>_  
><em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>If he doesn't answer your emails, you may want to accidentally run into him on the street.<strong>_

She had waited long enough and thought it was high time to put _that _particular tip into practice. It didn't hurt to try, anyway.

She had gone to Lestrade and asked him to find John's address for her – or at least his sister's contact. She had called Harry, who had been incredibly glad to hear that a friend – a woman – was looking for John. Molly begged her not to tell him she'd called, and Harry reluctantly agreed.

So now here she was, in the nearest supermarket (she knew John was a soldier, he'd notice if she stalked him, so the best option was to wander in the places he was most likely to visit). She was starting to think her undertaking had been pointless and was about to leave when she saw the man she had been waiting for come in through the door. She stopped and stared.

It was the perfect opportunity to run into him, but the moment she saw him she knew she couldn't do this. She was expecting him to look... well, bereaved, but this? He didn't appear ghastly to other people, but that was because they hadn't known him. Passers-by wouldn't even notice him, so little did he stand out.

He was but a mere shadow. She realized with a shudder that he reminded her of those very old men doing their shopping quietly and carefully, like some ancient automatons that hadn't been wound up in ages. His face was jadedly expressionless. His movements were slow and strictly limited to the indispensable. She noticed his right leg was a little too stiff, and his steps dreadfully mechanical.

But the worst were his eyes. They were haunted.

* * *

><p><em>You know you make me a ghost<br>_

* * *

><p><em>Hello. It's me again.<em>

_Let's meet, John. Anywhere you'd like. I think we both need to talk about Sherlock. I'm not doing well either. Can't we go through this together? Please reply. _

His name. She wrote _his name_. John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He's been through worse than this. He's been to war, for Christ's sake! There is no way he is going to be disturbed by a name. _But it's _his_ name... _

He looks blankly at the screen for a second. He is about to shut his laptop's lid (he no longer bothers to turn it off, or he wouldn't turn it on again), but feels a pang of guilt. It's funny how relieved he feels to actually _feel_ something other than rage and pain and emptiness and _longing_. He has felt guilt, too, and still does, although he knows that if Sherlock wanted to hide something from him, really hide it, there was no way he'd be able to see through him. Not that he'd be able to test this theory, now.

He brings a hand to the keyboard and quivers when his fingers touch it. It's been so long. Last time he typed, he was in their living-room in 221B and... He stops dead in his thoughts and refuses to go any further. He can't think of the flat. It's not _theirs_ any more. It's not home. It can no longer be.

_I'm sorry Molly. I hope you get better. Please don't write any more. _

_-John _

You must cut off the dead stems from a plant in order for it to keep growing.

_When the whole plant is dying though, there isn't much to be done, is there? _

He turns his laptop off.

* * *

><p><em>You make me a ghost<br>_

* * *

><p><em><strong>xXx<strong>_

_**.**_

_**.**_

_**.**_


	9. Ita diis placuit!

**A.N.: **Thank you to those of you who reviewed.  
><strong>Edit:<strong> This chapter was kindly betaed by BritChick101 and Wingatron.

_******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_  
><em>

_**Ita diis placuit!**_ : literally "Thus it pleased the gods"; what's done is done, and we can't change it.

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

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><p><strong>Chapter IX: Ita diis placuit!<strong>

_song: Turn to stone, by Ingrid Michaelson_

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><p>oOo<p>

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><p><em><em>Let's take a better look<br>beyond a story book  
>And learn our souls are all we own<br>before we turn to stone__

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><p>Mycroft was reading the newspaper in his usual seat at the Diogenes – well, pretending to, to be more specific. He already knew all the news of the day – and even some of next week's. From all over the world. Literally.<p>

He'd been looking for signs of Sherlock for weeks now. Nothing. He could find nothing. He had never cursed the talent of his little brother so much.

Then again, he'd had it coming. He was perfectly aware of the extent of his responsibiliy in this affair. Still, did Sherlock have to act like such a child and do this all on his own? What was he trying to prove, really? That he was so clever he could handle dismantling a world-wide criminal organization by playing both the 'devils' and the 'angels', alone?

_Such a fool_.

But deep down, Mycroft knew very well that this was no about proving how clever he was. Sherlock had been past that. He had been... happy, in his own twisted way. No drugs, no cigarettes. He had been clean for months, all thanks to Dr. John Hamish Watson. He had changed, too, even if imperceptibly so. Well, not so imperceptibly after all, since even old Jim Moriarty had noticed. Not that Moriarty was an idiot – although Mycroft was seriously beginning to wonder about that. The man had killed himself out of boredom after all. And also to put Sherlock in a brain-racking quandary, of course. Still, the man had ended his own life. That did not make him stupid in the least. But psychotic, yes.

And that maniac had sent his little brother to hell with Mycroft's blessing. To be fair, Mycroft needed Sherlock on this. Only _he_ had such a relationship (if one could call it that) with the criminal mastermind; only _he_ was brilliant and insane enough to accept such leg work as this.

But if Mycroft had been 'constantly worried' about his baby brother before, now he had good reasons to be concerned. Both about Sherlock and the dear doctor.

_Kids_. They were such trouble. And to think that he'd never married precisely to avoid this kind of situation. He sighed. That idiotic brother of his. Always one to wreak havoc even when he was _dead_.

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><p><em><em>Let's go to sleep with clearer heads<br>and hearts too big to fit our beds  
>And maybe we won't feel so alone<br>before we turn to stone__

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><p>Naturally he'd had to talk to Mummy.<p>

The woman hadn't been worried of course, but quite upset. She hated all the media fuss. She hated scandals in general. And Sherlock undeniably knew how to leave the stage outrageously. Oh, dear, that hadn't been easy. The talk, that is. Because of course she'd wanted to know what on earth they had been thinking and why this couldn't have been avoided, and Mycroft just didn't know where to begin – because he needed Moriarty out of the game, because Sherlock was always so proud and stubborn, because he'd found something he desperately wanted to protect... A weakness he'd (quite literally) die for.

As expected she had wanted to know more. Mycroft wasn't sure exactly who Moriarty had targeted around Sherlock, but one at least was obvious. Not that Mummy wasn't aware of it – she read the news, too. But that was part of the scandal: the whole flatmate thing. Having a son over thirty solving mysteries and investigating crimes with an ex-army doctor he was living with did not exactly fit her ideas of a successful life. But if that made him happy, after all, why not? She didn't mind. Except for that now he was 'dead', _and_ it was all over the news. Such a difficult child.

Mycroft could only agree.

Difficult, it must have been for Sherlock too. Even though Mycroft had warned him that caring wasn't an advantage, Sherlock couldn't stop himself. As always. Every time Mycroft had warned Sherlock against something, it had only made him more intent on indulging in it – candour, aloofness, crimes, drugs... love. That fool.

And if Mycroft could be held responsible for introducing Irene Adler into his life, the whole matter with John Watson had completely escaped his grasp. It had been pure chance, and there was no way he could have prevented it. Not that he necessarily would have. The doctor had a good influence on Sherlock to a certain extent, even if he _did_ make him worse too. They were an item, a true pair, and Mycroft had never imagined even in his wildest dreams (which, admittedly, weren't so wild) that his brother of all people wouldn't stand on his own, but would be one side of a coin. That when his name would be spoken, another one would inevitably come up.

It was thanks to John that Sherlock had become so famous. Because of the doctor's blog, he had received many clients, and his talents as a consulting detective had been given an even wider scope. However, that wasn't something Sherlock had ever wished – he didn't care. Did not give a damn about what other people thought. He just didn't bother. John, on the other hand, did. And now he must have been feeling guilty and completely responsible for his best friend's death. Mycroft could picture it from here: 'If only I hadn't written about him on my blog, if only I hadn't barged into his life and made him an internet phenomenon, if only, if only... if only he had never met me, he would still be alive.'

_Wrong. _

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, fighting the urge to rub his temples.

_Without you he would have managed to get himself killed by now. For real. _

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><p><em><em>And if you wait for someone else's hand,<br>Then you will surely fall down  
>And if you wait for someone else's hand,<br>__You'll fall, you'll fall__

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><p>John's haunted gaze had been even worse to deal with than Mummy's haughty frown. The man had come to need Sherlock like Sherlock needed him. Of course neither of them accepted this fact – they never did anything the easy way, did they?<p>

But to see him that distraught... Mycroft knew that glare. It was that of a man who could kill, and who would eventually, if only himself. That day in the doctor's new gloomy room, Mycroft knew he would have shot him. Without remorse. Then maybe he would have shot himself, or gone on to the trial – but the thing is, it would be even trickier to end his own life once in jail, so he probably would have done it right away. A thin smile played on the elder Holmes's lips as he imagined Mummy's appalled expression at the renewed scandal – but then he thought of Sherlock's reaction and the coldness was back on his face. It would be highly ironic, though. Some kind of modern, twisted version of Romeo and Juliet. So who was he supposed to be, Paris? He snorted.

Still, he kept a high surveillance on the doctor. Sherlock would never forgive him if anything were to happen to John in his absence. His little brother had met people he came to care for and who cared for him, which wasn't granted to start with. Sherlock truly was insufferable after all. Even if according to Mycroft, no one could ever be so endearing. He frowned. No wonder he'd never got a wife.

It was unfair though, he thought as he folded his newspaper to pretend to read another page, that the moment Sherlock had found something dearer than the game, he had been forced to give it up to play once more. And Mycroft knew Sherlock. He would suffer, indubitably, but then he'd fall for it again – no pun intended. He certainly wouldn't get bored – he'd be provided with everything he'd always been addicted to. There would be no lack of thrill. He'd never be short of danger and situations where he'd die if he didn't prove clever enough. And John wouldn't be there to save him this time.

John. Sherlock couldn't delete him altogether, but he could delete specific memories that made him so attached to the doctor – his first reaction to him showing off his deductive skills, the giggles at the crime scene after he had shot a man to save his life, the time at the pool he was ready to sacrifice himself in order for Sherlock to live... More insidiously even, his expressions, the sound of his voice, typical gestures. Every knowing smile they'd shared. Everything that made their partnership a meaningful bond. If he couldn't delete general facts, he could erase the whole feeling of complicity that surrounded them. Because Mycroft knew his little brother, he knew. Sherlock could erase what truly mattered.

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><p><em><em>I know that I am nothing new<br>There's so much more than me and you  
>But brother, how we must atone<br>before we turn to stone__

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><p>At one point even Mycroft started to doubt. It wasn't impossible, and it was even getting less and less improbable with every passing day, that Sherlock truly had died that day he had jumped off from the roof. Unlikely, of course. Mycroft knew he surely hadn't died from the fall, but he very well could have got caught by some interested party (and there were many) before even leaving the country.<p>

Two months, and there had been no trace whatsoever of Sherlock. If anyone was capable of fooling Mycroft's surveillance and leaving the country without him noticing even though he had put his best people on it, it was Sherlock. But even he would eventually need him – or the power he held anyway – to carry through what he was undertaking. Even if he couldn't properly contact him, he would have found a way to reveal where he was and what he was tackling at the moment. But there had been nothing, and so Big Brother had started to wonder if perhaps this whole plan hadn't gone terribly wrong already.

Because there were so many ways it could have gone wrong, and so many ways it still could. Sherlock was brilliant indeed, but when left alone he was as dangerous to himself as he was to other people (not that he wanted to harm them, but because he didn't bother). Incredibly clever, yes, but still human, and even he could make mistakes. And those would be deadly considering the present situation.

There was also the fact that Mycroft didn't have the slightest clue as to what his younger brother's strategy was. Or would be. He was sure he had thought about it already, but couldn't be quite certain whether he had made up his mind or not. Sherlock was always very passionate and dedicated to what he did – or, to put it more bluntly, he had a single-track mind and an addictive personality. Not the best combination. The good news was that this meant he knew where his priorities stood. The bad news was that everything else was transport. And also that once the priority, the goal, and the adversary had been set, any means were good to win the game. Whatever the goal was.

Mycroft's goal obviously was to get rid of Moriarty's network, of the Angels, the Devils, whatever those crazy humans wanted to be called as long as they stood between hell and heaven. Or at least control them. That was just the general idea. Even more generally speaking, he had vowed allegiance to the crown – Queen and country and all that. He had chosen a side, period. And he played the game from there. His position was the best to never be bored – at least for him.

He had to admit that Sherlock was too impulsive and much too candid to be able to enjoy fully political power and such. Sherlock never wanted to be a mastermind, whether criminal or not. He wanted to be a pirate. He was a mischievous child and even as he grew up he was still too pert to truly be on anybody's side. His impertinence only matched his audacity – he could only have clients, not masters. Which is why Mycroft was so concerned about this whole affair. Sherlock hadn't done it for a client. He certainly hadn't done it out of brotherly support either. He had done it to protect John and those he loved.

The doctor had been surprisingly perceptive on the matter – even if a little dramatic and cliché. What was it again he had written on his blog? There are forces out there, and they're coming for Sherlock Holmes. Something of the sort. Slightly hyperbolic perhaps, but quite right indeed. And also the part about it not being safe for people around him, such as dear Mrs. Hudson or John Watson himself.

Sherlock hadn't asked for it, but he had been thrilled. Thrilled to be targeted by nothing less than a consulting criminal – and a proper genius, too, if a little unhinged. The perfect nemesis. Sherlock was always criticizing John's way of telling his cases, because it supposedly wasn't rational and scientific enough, too 'romantic'. It was work, and it had to be taken seriously. But who was he kidding? He himself craved the adventure. He needed to put his own life on jeopardy. He needed to risk everything he had in the game for it to be stimulating enough to dispel his existential boredom. One doesn't become a pirate to become rich, but because of the thrill.

Except that pirates don't work alone, and Sherlock had always been rejected by the world. He was, after all, truly a freak. Not that Mycroft cared much for such a fleeting label that always depended on time and place. Still, all in all, in most environments, Sherlock would be considered a freak by the dominant group, and thus ostracised. Or, sometimes, be given as the scapegoat. Mycroft didn't dwell on the thought because it was just too close to the current situation – he knew he had used Sherlock, but it had never been his intention to _kill_ him. In fact, if his brother was dead, he would lose on all tables: both as the government official and the family member. Because he did care for Sherlock, deeply. He hadn't realized this stubborn, too proud for his own good _fool_ would go so far as fake his death and meet Moriarty where the madman stood: in Hell.

Why did he always have to be so extreme? It was like asking a child to clean up his room and see that he had in fact cleaned the whole house, throwing away half of its contents in the process because it had been deemed 'messy', and leave to never come back for the same reason ('a perfectly clean house wouldn't be so with me in it now, would it?'). All right, so maybe children didn't usually do that, conceded Mycroft, but Sherlock would. And on a larger scale, here he was, hiding from him, doing God knows what, and risking getting killed. Or maybe already dead.

The government official neatly ignored the fact that he hadn't exactly asked his brother to clean up his room, but to face a criminal, psychotic genius who was clinically obsessed with him.

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><p><em><em>And if you wait for someone else's hand,<br>Then you will surely fall down  
><em>_

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><p>Finally, there had been signs. Nothing clear, nothing obvious. In fact, nothing Mycroft could undoubtedly identify as his brother's doing. Still, he now had good reasons to hope that Sherlock was alive (and still on the game, whispered a dark voice in the recesses of his mind).<p>

That being said, Mycroft could now worry about the other issue at hand with the involvement of his brother with I.O.U. and what was left of Moriarty. Because they hadn't met nor talked about this directly, the government official could not be sure where exactly his own brother stood.

Clearly, dear old Jim (rest his soul) had thoroughly destroyed him as a consulting detective. Sherlock could always change identities and start anew, but he could never be so open, like he had been until now. He'd have to hide, between something or someone, or he would be found and hunted down or maybe even bought. Well, death would always be an option. But that wasn't the kind of risk Sherlock liked to take – this was dull, and he'd want to avoid it. Furthermore, the thrill wasn't his priority number one anymore. John was. Even Mrs Hudson now came before the thrill in the hierarchy. He wouldn't want them to come to harm just because he had been recognized by the wrong people.

There was also the fact that the idiot didn't lack pride. Mycroft had always wondered why in the world he'd always tell his true name to criminals who asked, and why he'd be so stupidly open about it – going as far as to have a website. A very funnily democratic way of finding clients, and definitely not the safest, nor the smartest. If it had implied more complicated thought processes, Sherlock would have no doubt been a Robin Hood rather than a Barbarossa. In any case, that meant he'd want to clear his name. But, again, not if it would put John's and the others' lives in danger. For that, he'd sacrifice even his name. Mycroft pondered sombrely. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't sacrifice everything just to please John: but to save his life, he would, unquestionably.

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><p><em><em>And if you wait for someone else's hand,<br>You'll fall, you'll fall__

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><p>One of Sherlock's many faults had been to start caring. Another one had been to be so blatantly obvious about it. It hadn't even crossed his mind that his very presence by the side of those he loved could represent a deadly threat to them. They weren't normal, weak people after all. They knew the risks, too. But did he? Like a child who's never had any toy, he hadn't believed it could break, once he'd been given one.<p>

He hadn't been very coherent about all this. He just hadn't bothered to think it through because he hadn't thought it would last anyway and he'd just wanted to enjoy the feeling of not being completely alone and left aside. Until he had realized that being alone was his only protection. Not in the sense that by refusing to indulge in any kind of relationships he'd avoid getting hurt or be manipulated, but in the sense that getting away was the only way to protect those he loved. How ironically tragic. Hadn't Moriarty warned him, though? That they both knew he had a heart. That he'd burn it.

Since ancient times burning had also been a way to purify. Deduction didn't need a heart – in fact a 'high-functioning sociopath' would be the ideal deducer. And here again Sherlock was being such a child. Claiming to be a sociopath and not a psychopath clearly was all about cocking a snook at society itself (and most of all at his family). Except that he wasn't. He didn't know how to act normal – he wasn't even sure what normal was, and why in the world it should be the norm when it was so irrational. He had created a job that allowed him not to study people from afar, or to manipulate them, or to ignore them altogether, but to live among them and interact with them.

Unfortunately for him, Sherlock did have a heart. His first reaction to boredom hadn't been to become a criminal, but to use his skills against them. A surprising approach, since the thrill would no doubt have been much stronger the other way around. When that hadn't been enough, he'd turned to drugs. Self-harm: he did have a destructive personality, but that was only directed towards himself. And walls, sometimes.

So he had burnt his heart himself. It was necessary to win the game, no doubt. Moriarty's message couldn't have been more limpid:

_My little abandoned child, it's high time you learned you may get lost if you keep following the crumbs. You can't do this half-heartedly. Care to come with me on a tour of the big bad world? _

Three. It suddenly dawned on Mycroft. Of course, there must have been _three_ targets. The number always present in fairy tales – three, and all the symbolism it held. Why hadn't he seen that sooner? Three break-ins: the jail, the bank and the tower. The cage, gold, and jewels. Moriarty was _teaching_ Sherlock through fairy tales, because Sherlock was a child. He was playing the king, what with wearing the crown – and didn't he call himself _Daddy_? Mycroft rubbed his temples. He'd really have to read again Bettelheim and Propp.

Then he gulped. Moriarty wasn't merely telling Sherlock a story. He had used it to shape his very life. He had made him a "hero": and the hero in fairy tales is often the most fragile, or the weakest, the youngest. And in spite of appearances, Sherlock was indeed quite damaged. The fairy tale hero goes on a journey because he experiences a lack of something, and he must always meet someone who will help him: an auxiliary character. Sherlock had met John. The hero leaves home and must face the outside world, thus learning life the hard way, his experiences leading to profound transformations.

Except that Sherlock didn't want to be a hero, but a pirate. And in children books the pirate doesn't usually deem himself good enough for the one he loves. He eventually leaves them in better hands, and continues roaming the seas. Sherlock loved John, that much was clear. A while ago Mycroft would have been certain that his brother would just do his work, clear his name and come back to his life as if nothing had happened, expecting everyone to greet him with open arms because he _had_ saved them after all. Obvious. Mycroft would have held for a fact that his little brother would come home whining and showing off, more insufferable than ever.

Now he wasn't so sure anymore. Fairy tale heroes experience self-transcendence and then return home. But Sherlock wasn't a hero and didn't care about fairy tales. He had _killed _the Sherlock Holmes persona, even if he had rather been forced to do so: and he hadn't killed himself to transform into a better person through an adventurous journey like in some kind of _Bildungsroman_. He had killed himself so the people he loved would live. And regardless of how fake his death was biologically speaking, something in him had no doubt died that day. Not by the hand of Moriarty, but by his own.

Besides, he never liked riddles. His field was logic. He cared for John more than anything, and so it was only logical that he'd stop at nothing to protect him. The same went for Mrs. Hudson if he'd decided she came next in the priority list. And who could be the third person? Mycroft snorted. Certainly not him. No one could target him without him noticing. Who, then? Oh. Of course. The D.I. Well, let's say he came third on the list. And by _them_ Mycroft meant _their lives_ – again, Sherlock wasn't one to actually put _people_ as his priority: he wouldn't change himself for them. However, he'd certainly change himself to keep them alive.

_But to what extent exactly?_ thought Mycroft grimly.

He suddenly had a very ominous feeling about all this, and something akin to guilt started gnawing in the pit of his stomach. If priority number one was John, and then somewhere in the top 5 was the wish to clear his name, the best option for Sherlock would be to dismantle the whole web – Moriarty, I.O.U., angels and devils alike. But there was still one question to be answered.

Would Sherlock be an angel in disguise among the devils, or the other way round?

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><p><em><em>And brother, how we must atone<br>before we turn to stone __

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><p><em><em>.<br>__

__.__

__.__

_tbc_


	10. Ubi sunt

**A.N:** Thank you to my readers and sorry for the wait! I'll try to update chapter XI tomorrow. As always, reviewers are loved_ ;)  
><em>

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** **_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"  
><em>

**_Ubi sunt:_** literally "where are...", from the Latin _Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?:_ "Where are those who were before us?"

****Warnings:****** Rating for this chapter is M for drug use and onanism, though nothing graphic. Please read with caution. **This chapter is important as part of the character study but you can still follow the story even if you prefer to skip it.

**.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter X: Ubi sunt<strong>

_song: In the sea, by Ingrid Michaelson_

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><p>oOo<p>

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><p>.<p>

He'd done it. He'd finally gone and done it. The first option on the 'How-can-I-cope-with-this' list.

Drugs.

To be fair, it wasn't truly planned or anything. He'd just had the terribly bad idea to finally go back to the flat. The one on Baker Street, that is. Which, technically, wasn't really _the flat_ any more. And that's why it had all gone so wrong.

John had received by the post his old key to 221B a few days prior – thanks to Mycroft's meddling and Mrs. Hudson's attempt to be kind. The dear woman must have thought most sincerely that it would do the doctor some good to put some order, if only to leave everything behind once and for all.

Except that he hadn't. How could anyone expect him to 'put some order' and move on? This was absurd. Complete nonsense.

But sometimes you're so shattered even nonsense can represent a small flicker of hope in the gnawing emptiness. John had hoped. Irrationally so. For what, exactly? For the flat to be so forsaken and _dead_ that he'd never want to go back and date the first woman he'd meet on the street after that, marry and have children and maybe even move out of London forever? Of for Sherlock to be curled on the couch pouting and whining about how John had been ignoring him for the past few weeks?

Months. _**Months**_, he corrected mentally. He felt sick. For once he did have a good reason – and by good, he meant medical. Physiological. Not psychosomatic, and with a cause such as desperate as _the one that mattered most is dead_. Because honestly, no doctor had ever found a cure for that.

John chuckled brokenly and regretted it straight away, for it increased the nausea about tenfold. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he remembered that this was a very common side effect of heroin.

_Heroin. _What in the world was heroin doing in the flat? When John had found the white powder in Sherlock's room – and please, don't ask how he had ended up there – he had assumed it was cocaine. What else could it be? This was Sherlock.

_Was_. _This isn't Sherlock. It won't be ever again. _

He grunted and thanked the gods that Mrs. Hudson had gone to her sister's for a while. Of course he'd known that before coming to the flat – and he couldn't be certain whether the good woman had left because she was too lonely and haunted in this empty house, or because she thought he'd be more likely to come if she wasn't there. If no one was here to meet him.

_Not anyone. Nothing but ghosts_.

And so John had come. He'd seen the empty flat and he couldn't bear it. The silence. The cold that had settled in even though it was only mid-September. The tidiness. _Intolerable_. He had felt the urge to mess it all up again. To throw things around, to put eyeballs in the microwave and hide cigarettes under the skull. To move the chairs that were neatly arranged at the table, to bring back all the experiments in the kitchen, to have two cups of tea lingering somewhere... _Two_. It had been crazy and he had known it. But he couldn't stop the panic attack. He had sensed his pulse quicken, his arms trembling, and yet he had kept scanning the room with burning eyes, looking, truly looking, for the very first time. Observing. And seeing every little detail that screamed Sherlock's absence.

_He's gone, gone, gone, gone... _

The panic had triumphed and he'd started running around the flat, looking for a sign, anything, anything at all his friend might have left for John to find him because it couldn't be, he couldn't be dead, couldn't have killed himself. _Couldn't have left me. Why didn't he take me along, why did he have to be his stuck-up self and go on his own? Why, why, why... Why didn't you kill me?_

He'd realized at that point that he had been wreaking havoc in Sherlock's room, and had frozen on the spot. Everything was upside down. _Not only the room_, he'd thought with a bitter laugh. Since everything was ripped and out in the open, he couldn't resist looking around a bit and going through his dead flatmate's possessions. Well, what used to be, anyway. It was macabre and he knew it. Even so, he just couldn't help but want to try everything that might calm the searing ache that threatened to consume him completely. And that's how he'd found the powder.

Heroin. What was Sherlock doing with heroin? John couldn't be sure he'd ever taken any – but still, it was in the flat. In his room. Why would he keep such a thing if he didn't even consider using it? John shook his head – and remembered it was a bad idea to move around too much because of the dizziness.

"_It was a bad idea to take the drug in the first place", said Sherlock, frowning. _

John frowned back.

"You're the own hiding it in your room."

"_Yes, but I'm dead. There's only so much damage drugs can do – I think I'm quite immune now."_

John laughed. Oh, this was bad. Heroin wasn't supposed to cause hallucinations, he was pretty damn sure of that – if his medical knowledge was anything to go by. But he still recalled that it could nonetheless. There had been cases. It all depended on the ingested amount, the body build of the user, his psychological mindset before the ingestion... _Oh_. Right.

He stared dumbly at the wall in front of him, trying to focus on the periodic table hanging on the wall. He was feeling extremely tired all of a sudden, and the giddiness certainly didn't help. Still, he also relished the way the drug allayed the hollowness and assuaged his sheer yearning.

Because he could feel it. Sherlock's presence. Filling the room, embracing him – his scent on the bed even though Mrs Hudson had removed all sheets, the trace of his fingers on the door handle. Everything was here: except him. John clenched his fists on the bare mattress.

Never in his life had he craved for somebody's presence so deeply. He desperately needed to see him, touch him, listen to him breathing... Because the ghost sitting by his side on the bed definitely wasn't. The ghost... or was it a dream? He could no longer tell whether he was just drugged or asleep. It didn't feel like he was missing a limb, but his very bone marrow.

"_That's very unlikely, you know. You'd be dead, too." _

"Of course, why didn't I think of that?"

"_Bec__ause you're an idiot."_

_Oh that, I am, _John murmured bitingly before letting go and falling back onto the bed.

.

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><p><em>I feel it in my skin, I feel it through my bones<br>Your fingertips are falling far from where I know  
>I try to pin you down but you move like a dream<br>I want to find you but you dropped me in the sea_

* * *

><p>.<p>

He couldn't say he didn't see it coming. Thinking about drugs and then going to a place linked to your very trauma _and_ where there will very likely be some drugs hidden somewhere.

John still couldn't fathom why Sherlock would ever bother with heroin – he always needed the opposite effect. That's why he'd taken drugs for in the first place. And also why he barely ate and slept. _Power. Energy. Very useful to you now, isn't it? _

"_Oh, don't be bitter. I'm not the one high on heroin and lying groggily on a cold mattress – and that's my bed, by the way."_

" 't's not like you're gonna be needing it any time soon."

"_Brilliant deduction, John."_

"Mm."

He really did feel groggy though. _No shit. You've just sniffed heroin, what do you expect? _His inner voice and Sherlock's resonating in the room – or so it seemed anyway – were beginning to give him a serious headache.

"Hey... won't you keep talking?"

John's eyes were closed so he really must have dreamt the contemptuous snort and the offended pout.

"_You're in no state to listen properly to me, why would I even bother?"_

"... please..?"

_Oh great. Now I'm begging an illusion. _

He jumped abruptly as he felt a hand wrap around his own, and opened his eyes with a violent start. A sudden throbbing pain in his temples made him blink and the queasiness came back full force. Nothing. The room was empty. Of course it was. And yet... he could still feel the warm hand on his own. His stomach lurched and the gentle squeeze on his palm made his head spin. His thumping heartbeats vibrating in his ears only enhanced the giddiness.

"_Shh... Just close your eyes."_

"You're dead."

"_I know." _

John took a deep breath and tried to ignore the shaking that had just seized his whole body. He closed his eyes and fell back once more onto the mattress. It was cold and a shiver ran down his spine. He felt an arm circle his waist from behind and the warming form of a body spoon him. He choked. The hand holding his stroked soothing circles on his palm with an invisible thumb. Time seemed to stop.

"It's impossible."

"_Only improbable."_

"Heroin doesn't..."

"_I am not a hallucination."_

"Oh really? What are you, then, a proper ghost perhaps?"

"_You know what I am."_

"Warm," John groaned back, pressing himself against... whatever it was.

The figure sighed and he could feel a breath on the nape of his neck. He shivered.

"_Of course I'm warm. You're cold."_

"How in the world is that related?

"_John. I'm a fantasy. I'm what you want. What you need most now."_

"I certainly don't need you to be so damned perceptive. Won't you be a nice fantasy and shut up now?"

"_You know I'm not nice, John, and it's me you want. Also, you've just asked me to talk." _

"Right, and now I'm telling you to shut up."

"_But I can't."_

John growled.

"And why is that? Because even as a bloody delusion you must be insufferable?"

"_Because you want to hear my voice."_

This should have hurt like a slap in the face. Punched him out of his trance. But all he felt through his sleepiness was tranquillity and ease. It was warm and Sherlock was there and everything was perfect again. John smiled contentedly and let himself drown in a blissful confusion.

.

* * *

><p><em>In the sea in the sea in the sea in the sea<br>You dropped me  
>In the sea in the sea in the sea in the sea<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

He had completely lost track of time. Gradually his body was becoming heavier and heavier. Warmer, too, as if the heat had spread from the nonexistent hand and arm to his every limb. Even though his heart rate had slackened he felt flushed.

Regardless of his somnolent state it seemed that he couldn't fall asleep, but he didn't mind because he found solace in the warm figure enveloping him. The messy room now seemed cosy and snug.

For the first time in months, John finally felt relaxed. In this room filled with Sherlock's scent and his body wrapped around his, nothing mattered anymore. Not Harry, who kept insisting they lived together even though she was dating someone seriously again – John knew she had resumed drinking too, albeit not as much as before. Not the doctors at the clinics he'd applied to, who tried to be tactful in refusing him for the job – or not. Some had been quite straightforward. Too notorious and not very trustworthy it seemed, what with the developing "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" movement. The whole affair still inspired controversy. Lestrade had been transferred – John hadn't seen him since the funerals, but he'd read about it in the papers. Old clients like Henry Knight or Chris Melas had gone through interviews and tried to give evidence for Sherlock, testifying he couldn't possibly have been a fraud.

Most people however, the 'serious people', still believed he'd been a fake. Why would he have killed himself if he wasn't? It didn't make sense. And for that matter, John could only agree. He stayed away from the media and refused to give any interview whatsoever. He hadn't had to go to court, since there hadn't been a trial: it seemed Mycroft had done nothing to clear his brother's name, and had let it be dragged into the mud.

Although John had kept his distance with the whole scandal, he never deleted his last comment on the blog. And he never would. Hence the reluctance of each and every clinic or hospital he'd applied to. Many didn't even mention the comment, but some did, and at that point John usually just stood and left the room, which only confirmed in their eyes how inapt he was to practise again. _Bloody idiots_. If this went on, he'd have no choice but to start his own practise.

"Got no money though..."

As he spoke again his voice sounded slumberous even to his own ears. He didn't understand why though, because he was starting to feel a bit restless. How could you be shifty and comatose at the same time?

"_When you're high on heroin?"_

"Don't read my thoughts."

"_I'm in your head, John. I don't even need to read them." _

"Hmpf."

"_Very eloquent." _

"My pulse is so slow. D'you think it's gonna stop?"

"_Oh come on, John, can't you at least speak properly? Articulate!"_

John chuckled and was hit by another wave of nausea.

"Sorry, bit drowsy. Mouth's dry, too."

"_Are you going to be sick? Get out of my bed if you are."_

"How very romantic of you."

"_Why should I be romantic?"_

"Because I want you to?"

"..._Oh."_

_.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>No, no don't rescue me<br>I like the salt water sting  
>It feels so good to feel<br>It feels so good just to feel something  
>In the sea in the sea in the sea in the sea<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

He felt the arm circling his waist go up his torso, caressing gently, until a hand was pressed to his loitering heart.

"I didn't even have the orgasm."

"_Excuse me?"_

"Y'know. The rush."

"_That's because you didn't inject."_

"Why did you have powder? It's stupid if it takes away the initial pleasure."

"_It's not mine."_

"The pleasure?"

"_The powder, John, the powder."_

"Why would it be in your room if it wasn't yours?"

"_Not mine."_

"Right. Whatever."

"_And the powder allows the pleasure to settle in gradually."_

"Ah. Don't feel much."

"_Oh, you'll feel it when it won't be there anymore."_

The warning couldn't have be clearer. But John paid it no heed – he was in no state to do so. Shutting his eyes tighter, he turned in the warm arms that were holding him and nuzzled in what must have been thin air, but felt like an over angular shoulder nonetheless.

"Then never make it stop."

Only silence greeted him, but the hand that wasn't holding his nested itself in the crook of his back and pulled him closer. John could positively feel the warm glow spread from those slender fingers to his entire body, and the soft curls and the skin quivering with light. He was too confused to realize how illogical it was to feel the skin although the silhouette he'd seen had been wearing a shirt, or to always have that warm hand wrapped over his no matter the position he took – quite a bit of contortion, Sherlock would have said. But Sherlock wasn't there and John was too far gone to make any rational comment. He only managed to utter sluggishly:

"You're not answering..."

"_That's because you don't know what you want."_

"What?"

The gentle though a little awkward hand went up his spine all the way to the nape of his neck, and fingers started running in his hair that wasn't so short anymore – hadn't bothered cutting it much.

The deep baritone voice came as a whisper.

"_You're divided. A part of your mind wants me to promise you I'll never let it stop and always be there. Another part wants me to be... well, me. And so say what I would say."_

John frowned and started to feel restless again. There was the warmth and the blissful giddiness that numbed the searing pain of the loss. He no longer had any headache and the nausea was almost bearable – it was all lost in this indescribable drowsiness that blurred time and reason.

"And what would you say?"

"_That the effects of the drug can only last 8 hours, 5 considering the amount you've taken. That it's already been..."_

"No. Don't. Please don't."

Something like panic fluttered in his stomach, and it made his head swirl because usually panic came with awareness and tension and now he was all relaxed, melting in invisible arms. Panic that couldn't lead to any action, because there was nothing he could do. Nothing but beg and pray.

A sense of dread and helplessness overwhelmed him and he clung to the form embracing him – the warm, moving, _talking _form. His fists clenched in emptiness as he grabbed the shirt desperately. He was breathless, his pulse irregular, so soft he could barely feel it beating in his chest.

"No, no, no... You said pleasure. Grant me pleasure. Don't give me your smartass reasoning now. I want you, yes, I want you as yourself – but I want you, here, now. Don't you dare leave me."

He was babbling, he realized. Didn't matter, though, he needed this, needed the warmth, the blissful confusion and the feel of Sherlock's skin on his, his breath on his neck, his curls against his cheek. He wished he could just drown in the sensations, into this man's body, and merge with his skin his mind his limbs... John gasped.

.

* * *

><p><em>You move so softly in the middle of the night<br>Like a cocoon in sheets you wrap you up so tight  
>Remember how we used to tangle up and breathe<br>Now you're so far away you roll me in the sea_

* * *

><p>.<p>

He became aware he was getting an erection and froze dumbly. What in the world...?

"_Before you ask, you desired me even before you took the drug. Your body started to be excited from the moment you entered my room..."_

"Stop."

"_... because it's filled with my scent..."_

"Stop it."

"_... and because you've wanted to sleep in this bed ever since you saw the Woman daring to do so."_

"Shut up!"

And to prevent the ghost to continue his analysis he turned his face and kissed fleshy lips that parted in surprise. They were... warm. Everything was so warm. John couldn't tell if the heat came from the dizziness or the other way round.

"_A__nd so that's why you're erect." _

"Quod erat demonstrandum. Thanks, genius."

"_... you just spoke Latin."_

"Mmh. Think I did."

"_You speak Latin when you're on drugs?"_

"Oh, shut up and kiss me."

The illusion complied and John melted into the touch.

"More... throat feels dry... lips, too.. chapped... please... water me..."

Sherlock deepened the kiss. His luscious lips were soft at first but then turned gluttonous and utterly began to devour him. John moaned as they moved on to his cheek, his chin and his throat, swabbing, nibbling, _suckling. _Arching his back and tilting his head to the side to offer more skin to Sherlock's ministrations, he inadvertently brushed his crotch against his – and since when had he been erect too?

John didn't find it strange that all he could feel was heat and a mouth on his chest putting his skin on fire and swallowing him. Didn't find it strange that Sherlock's hand was still on his, pressing tightly, but the other arm nowhere to be found, or that all clothes suddenly seemed to have vanished.

All he could feel was a sort of hunger and sheer _joy_, craving and contentment all at once because he had everything he'd ever wanted – or could remember ever wanting these past few months. Not that he was in a state to remember much. Rubbing their bodies, becoming more breathless by the second – and John could now, to his delight, hear the panting gasps of the man pressed to him – the doctor positively thought they must be making sparks because he was ecstatically galvanized. From the recesses of his mind a medical voice told him it should have been the other way around, and that this meant his excitation and hallucinating were more closely linked to his psychological condition than to the drug ingestion, which was very worrying. John didn't even hear the voice.

.

* * *

><p><em>In the sea in the sea in the sea in the sea<br>You dropped me  
>In the sea in the sea in the sea in the sea<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

The nausea was back and yet the euphoria overwhelming. He revelled in the blissful friction of their bodies and at the same time knew it would end soon because release would come eventually. Never had the word seemed so inadequate to him: nothing would be releasing about the end of this at all.

"Sherlock... Sherlock..."

"_Hmm?_

"I... I need you... need you..."

It was becoming harder to breathe by the second.

"_Should I stop?_"

"No! I..."

He stopped and considered.

"Wait, you're... ah!"

He bit his lips and finished his thought.

"You're... teasing?"

"_And if I was?"_

John sighed and groaned and just couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"I... need you..."

"_I believe I got the thought, now._"

"Need you... inside of me. Now."

"_John, I–_"

"No!"

He clenched his fists and pressed the man closer to him, thrusting his hips with elation, and he wasn't sure whether his tone was commanding or pleading.

"Don't... say anything... Just... I need you. Now. Please. Please please please please..."

.

* * *

><p><em>No, no don't rescue me<br>I like the salt water sting  
>It feels so good to feel<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

It hit him like a supernova. His whole body went into spasm as electric shockwaves thrilled him with a sense of completeness. He could feel Sherlock filling him vividly, and the impossibility of such a painless penetration didn't even cross his mind. Had he been lucid, he would have understood that it was the very idea of being possessed that had pushed him over the edge and brought him to his climax, not because he had always craved such sex with the detective, but because it made him overwhelmingly present in the deepest and most intimate part of himself. Because it felt like a declaration of common ownership: _you're mine, I'm yours. If we're this closely connected you'll never fade away, never leave me behind, because you cannot live without me can you? I can't, I definitely can't Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock... _It made him whole again.

John heard a scream and was half aware that it must have been his own as he rode his orgasm until the very end, until all he could feel was wetness in his pants.

He lay on the cold mattress in stupor for a while – minutes or more passed but he was too dazed to notice. Finally, everything hit him all at once. His body still warm, too warm, his ragged breath and his soft, soft pulse, the nausea and the _void_.

Because the voice had stopped. The ghost had died. He was lying alone, on the cold mattress of a dead man's room, in an empty house. If he hadn't been still on heroin, violent sobs would have racked his body until he couldn't take it and would have to pay a visit to his smiley friend. In the state he was however, all sluggish and hideously _relaxed,_ he could only feel numb with grief.

Later, self-disgust and shame would arise. But for now, there was nothing.

Nothing but an empty room and silent tears wetting a cold mattress.

.

* * *

><p><em>It feels so good just to feel something<br>In the sea in the sea in the sea in the sea_

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._


	11. Tanquam aegri somnia

**A.N.: **I have used in this chapter quotes from the original BBC episodes, from the English Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs, and from two songs: _Stayin' Alive_ (The BeeGees) and _You've survived _(Firewind). I take no credits at all: they're quotes.

All my thanks to Wingatron for betaing this chapter.

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"_  
><em>

**_Tanquam aegri somnia:_** literally _'Like a sick man's dreams' _

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XI: Tanquam aegri somnia<strong>

_song: I'll see you in my dreams, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Though the days are long<br>Twilight sings a song  
>Of a happiness that used to be<br>Soon my eyes will close  
>Soon I'll find repose<br>And in dreams, you're always near to me_

* * *

><p>You wake up with a start. Trying to dispel the lingering images and sounds of the nightmare, you take a deep breath and look around.<p>

The room is too vast and you don't like it. Not an inch of it. It's still dark and the only light dispersing the shadows is red and painfully bright. It says: 3:42. You like it even less.

As your brain flashes 'C-D-B', you let yourself fall back onto the bed with a groan. You shake it off and frown. This whole affair is giving you a headache already. Who knew John's absence could have such an impact on your well-being? He'd been absent even when you lived together. For several days or even weeks, sometimes.

_No_, corrects your brain, who seems to have build a life of its own, _he hadn't. He was always there. In the cup left on the kitchen table. In his laptop always lying around the living-room. He was everywhere in 221B. _You wonder absent-mindedly if he'd think the same of you. Of course he noticed when you weren't in the room, so you couldn't be sure. But wasn't that why he had refused to go back to the flat in the first place? You really hadn't understood why in the world he'd want to move out just because you were dead: obviously, Mrs. Hudson would lower the rent for him, and it was a blessed opportunity to live in central London at his ease in a flat big enough for two. Having a spare room could even be useful if he wanted to have his first child there.

You swallow and try to dispel the thought. John didn't have the money to move out of Baker Street and stay in London for very long. He wouldn't want to go to Harry. Would he leave London altogether?

_Stop it. There is no time to look back_.

Oh, but there is, and that is why the dreadful calm and abhorred peacefulness is getting on your wick. You've been stuck in this room for almost a week and now you're even wondering if you went to the right hotel. "Second home", was it? On second avenue. You can't help but growl in the darkness. Moriarty sure knew how to pick his addresses. And if you'd had any doubt whether you got his hint right, the name of the place was confirmation enough.

So here you are in this maddeningly silent room, waiting. Thinking most of the time – mainly of letters and numbers and partitas, and old Jim is lucky to be dead because you would no doubt have found the most elaborate and painful way to send him to hell if he were still alive. Except _you _are the one going through hell right now.

It was quite obvious to you from the beginning that the clue to the _real _code was in Bach's pieces - _gematria._ [1] Hence your playing the violin when you were expecting old Jim's little visit after his trial. _I got it_, was your message. Of course, you hadn't exactly got it - in fact you had missed the most important fact, which was that Moriarty would use your 'friends' against you. That had become obvious when he'd started talking about fairy tales: protagonists always had auxiliary egos supporting them or helping them in their quest. When they sticked to the hero for a substantial period of time, they became targets. They needed to be left behind, so you could figure out Moriarty's little riddles, most of them encrypted in gematria. Music, letters? and numbers thus fill your mind most of the time lately.

When you're not busy thinking about your next step in this unnecessarily convoluted mess your late nemesis left for you, you eat and sleep. You've noticed you must pay extra attention now, as John isn't here to remind you to do so if you want your body to be functional. You groan again – it's becoming a habit – and bury your head in your pillow. Whenever you eat, you think of John. Whenever you sleep, you dream – _you_, who hardly dreamt before, who could never remember a dream!

And you dream of him.

Of course, the increase in your sleep time isn't linked to this at all.

* * *

><p><em>I'll see you in my dreams<br>Hold you in my dreams  
>Someone took you out of my arms<br>Still, I feel the thrill of your charms_

* * *

><p><em>The Three Sillies. <em>

You wanted to get rid of the bloody parchment. Yes, _parchment_: maybe Moriarty truly was a maniac. It was your little Welcome to New-York present you'd found in the drawer next to the bed and that had been further proof that you were in the right room – second floor, n°221.

But you didn't. Get rid of it, that is. One never knew, after all, when an old fairy tale could come in handy. Especially when it was the heritage of a psychopath. Maybe some secret message – another 'riddle' – was hidden in this children's story of a man realizing how silly his fiancée and her parents are and so leaving on a journey, saying he will come back to marry her only if he can find three other people just as silly.

However, it could also just be a very bad joke: Moriarty wasn't above that, quite the contrary. Naturally, by now you already know the whole tale by heart. You can almost hear the madman repeating the last lines again and again in your mind with his sing-song voice, and you hate him for it. You hate yourself for it.

_So there was a whole lot of sillies bigger than them three sillies at home. So the gentleman turned back home again and married the farmer's daughter, and if they didn't live happy for ever after, that's nothing to do with you or me._

"_It really hasn't, has it, Sexy? :) Since it won't happen. It's not for us. But don't worry: you'll find enough sillies out there to occupy yourself, and there'll probably be a nice little sillies' wedding at 'home', don't you think? Only without you. Cheers. :)"_

That didn't actually belong to the tale, obviously. It was a a hand-written note in red ink in the margin besides the typed text, matching the seal of the envelope in which the parchment was. Another magpie, just like on those received in London. Part of the tale or not, it still manages to rile you at night.

With a last growl and a frown on your face, you decide it's high time to go back to sleep. Maybe the voice you'll hear then will be more pleasant. But you've never been one to fall asleep easily (_no_, you are _not_ insomniac, it's just that you've always considered sleeping such a waste of time). It's not that you _cannot_ fall asleep. Of course not. You start counting in your head. _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8..._ And your intrusive brain chanting in counterpoint: _A, B, C, D, E, F, G..._

* * *

><p><em>Lips that once were mine<br>Tender eyes that shine  
>They will light our way tonight<br>I'll see you in my dreams_

* * *

><p><em><strong>26 = 23 <strong>_

John would have laughed at you and asked if you'd deleted calculus as well, because it wasn't worth the space on your hard drive. But the good doctor didn't think.

Unlike a certain madman. It turned out the phone Moriarty had on the roof wasn't his real phone. Not the one with which he'd managed to break into the three supposedly most guarded places in Great Britain anyway. You hadn't even noticed – you didn't care much, truth be told, and you hadn't _quite_ expected the man to shoot himself in the mouth. But then you'd been startled by a ringtone breaking the silence of the mortuary at night. '_If you're still alive, bang your drum, play it hard, celebrate, you have survived'. _Another idiotic song. It could only mean one thing.

Your late archenemy had left you his iPhone – and contacts. Great. Just _great_. And yes, that's ironic. Of course it will be very helpful – it already is – but it's also proof you're in a finer mess than you thought. A long way into it, too. Naturally, you still had to crack the password and remember the number he'd given you at Bart's a long time ago as Molly's boyfriend: the last four digits in particular (could he have been fuller of himself?).

So Moriarty knew what you'd been up to – wasn't sure, though. You were quite certain he had doubted you on the roof for a while. But after all, he'd dated Molly Hooper. He was aware of her attachment for you. Maybe he wasn't sure you would think of her, though. Still, Moriarty wanted to play until the end: he was bored. Staying alive was boring.

And so he had invited you to die along, or fall down to hell: "_You're me_". That didn't say whether you'd live like him, or die like him. Oh, he had thought this through, hadn't he? Your final problem. _The_ final problem. To live, or not to live? And if to live, to live in hell.

You'd chosen hell.

Moriarty's "good luck with that" had been genuine, if a little ironic. _Good luck with that big bad __world out there. Maybe you won't be disappointed. At least you didn't disappoint me. Thank you._

You groan: you never liked Cornelian dilemmas, and to be forced into one wasn't exactly your definition of a good Game.

_Now that you have a weakness, my dear, you're ordinary. Boring, and ordinary, just like anyone else. Aren't you even bored with yourself? You should just commit suicide. Or have some fun doing something _new_. What do you say? _

"I don't have to die if I've got you", you'd said.

And you did get it: both Moriarty and 'U'. Still, you wonder if killing yourself wouldn't have been less trouble. All that playing, putting on a show with a madman for other madmen who were watching. Playing each other and playing others too... It was all so tedious.

But most of all, you hated the fact that you had to completely play John for the last few months you spent living with him. You'd been strangely touched when he said he cared, and would never believe you were a liar because no-one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time. You'd been touched, and yet it wasn't entirely pleasant. Something started gnawing in the pit of your stomach that day, something you still couldn't quite manage to shake off. Was it guilt? Or perhaps only the pain of those who know? You can't be sure. And you don't want to.

Looking down at the screen, you add the last recipient. Because he left you this phone, you already have the list of numbers you need to send the message to in the address book – not all, of course, but as always, the hint is in the name (Uruguay, Ingrid Olivia, was the most obvious – almost unworthy of dear old Jim).

Oh yes, John would have laughed at you, and suddenly it doesn't matter if it had been just another sign of his stupidity: you catch yourself wishing he were there being clueless by your side. Ignoring the twinge in your chest, you press the _Send_ button and the equation disappears from the screen.

_**26 = 23 **_

* * *

><p><em>In the dreary gray<br>Of another day  
>You are far away and I am blue<em>

* * *

><p>Someone comes and knocks on your door at last. It is high time: you were starting to wonder if Moriarty had made a mistake somewhere (not <em>you<em>, of course, you are not that careless).

You open and a short, plump woman with greyish hair cut like a man's, wearing enormous horn-rimmed glasses, stares up at you. John would have described her as a funny-looking woman, surely. She pulls a face.

"Your hair, it's..."

"Blue, yes. Very perceptive of you."

Her frown deepens but she makes no comment as she enters the room with her small purple suitcase, her coat and hat under the arm.

"I can see you haven't been very occupied."

"Oh, I've been quite busy reading and singing!"

"Have you, now?"

"Oh yes. Always loved letters and numbers."

"I can't see many of those in songs."

"Really? Aren't notes even better than anything, as they're _both_ letters and numbers?"

She arches an eyebrow and replies with a tight-lipped smile:

"I had been told you were quite the man for the job, Mr. Villabella."

You send her a boyish grin, more likely to make her cringe than a dark look – and your smile widens as you are proved right.

"Are you having second thoughts now that you've seen me, Mrs. …?"

"You can call me Lucia."

She doesn't answer your question, and it's just as well. The Work won't wait. Everything else can.

* * *

><p><em>Still I hope and pray<br>Through each weary day  
>For it brings the night and dreams of you<em>

* * *

><p>You wake up with a start, and can still hear John's scream echoing in your mind. It's too bad his last words to you were your own name: you don't care much for it now.<p>

The room surrounding you is much smaller than the previous one, and not as bare: more furniture, more ornaments – tiring. _Didn't you have even more junk in Baker Street? _You scowl at your brain for using the word 'junk' and ignore it. Arching your back, you sit straighter in the old armchair. Apparently, you can no longer sleep in beds. Not that you used to very much, evidently. A fleeting image of John's bed, disarranged in the aftermath of a nightmare, crosses your mind. You squash it down.

Standing up, you walk to the window. Beds are dull, anyway.

You wonder idly how come a room in a Bed & breakfast near Chicago can be noisier than one in Manhattan – you hear you brain mention vaguely something about the top floor and double glazing, but you're not paying much attention. _Not_ _quiet_ isn't so bad, though. Fabrizio (Lucia's "husband") is snoring loudly next door, and the rain outside is pouring. It's only 5am or so and the road one block away is busy already. Yet there is a silence in your head you just can't seem to break.

So you try to fill it. With something else than 9-14-8-13. _John_. Because somehow that's where the silence seems to be radiating from.

Tapping on the windowsill absent-mindedly, you peruse the mental scores of Bach's partitas you have on your hard drive. You've already solved most of Moriarty's little riddles, but not all: and you are quite aware that could be fatal.

You turn away from the window because even the rain is too bright, and your gaze falls on a piece of parchment paper laying over the libretto of Rossini's _La gazza ladra_. You had found the sealed letter in this very room upon your arrival, above the fireplace. Naturally the owner had no idea it was there and didn't even notice when she cleaned the room. Still, considering the woman, it could have been left there among the other bibelots and gone unnoticed for months. If anything, she didn't seem particularly astute.

Taking the parchment you sit again on the armchair sloppily, and skim through it in case you'd miss a clue. It tells the story of Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse who live and do everything together. Then Titty dies and Tatty weeps, and for some unfathomable reason the whole house goes amok starting with the stool that begins to hop around, then the broom, the door and so on. Until a man on a ladder is told Tatty's weeping and so decides to fall and break his neck, thus destroying Tatty's house and her with it, by a reversed butterfly effect. Complete nonsense. But not so much as the little note in red ink at the end of the tale, saying: '_Don't weep, my dear, see where it leads. Oops! I forgot! You're not the one left weeping, you are DEAD! :D' _

When you hear the paper crumple inside your clenched fist, you remember why you decided to wait before re-reading the letter. Seems like you didn't wait long enough.

* * *

><p><em>I'll see you in my dreams<br>Hold you in my dreams_

* * *

><p>Moriarty's iPhone contains a surprising amount of music files, including songs and pieces. He'd left Rossini's overture there as well – the piece he'd played while breaking into the Tower of London (according to the camera videos in any case). Actually, he'd even configured it to be his morning alarm, something you were quick to change. Wakening was reserved to John. <em>To his screams, <em>adds your brain casually.

Slapping yourself mentally, you look up and force a smile to the young woman sitting across the table. Certainly, John would have found her attractive, with her plump lips and charming green eyes. What you notice however is the 25 ACP in the inside pocket of her jacket and the suspicious shape of her wedding ring – definitely one you could open and fill with any kind of powder you'd like. And you doubted it was cocoa or sugar.

"Are you listening?"

"Of course, Ninetta. I'm sure your holiday will be better next time."

"But it was my honey moon!"

"As I said."

She sighs.

"Come on, let me show you some pictures from _my _holiday to cheer you up."

She shrugs and sips her cocktail with a pout (for some absurd reason you're pleased to see she isn't as pretty when she pulls a face – when you realize _why_ you're so happy about it and how utterly _ridiculous_ it is, your brow furrows slightly). Bending over the table, she takes a look at the image appearing on the screen of your phone.

It's a picture of a graffiti: the one on the wall opposite the flat on Baker Street ; 'IOU' in large, red letters, with black wings. The one John probably didn't even notice. How could he? He never observed. And you hadn't even told him anything about IOU. Indubitably, it must have been erased by now. Nevertheless, it was still there the day you jumped from Bart's roof, according to your network. It is such a pity you aren't acquainted with homeless people in the US, they truly are priceless.

Ninetta takes the picture in but her face betrays nothing. Finally, she puts her glass back onto the table. You catch her eye and ask in a light-hearted tone:

"So what do you think?"

"Oh you know what they say. Fuss and feathers!"

She scoffs. You grin.

* * *

><p><em>Someone took you out of my arms<br>Still, I feel the thrill of your charms_

* * *

><p><em><strong>November 2, Royal Academy of music, London.<strong>_

You can almost hear John telling you how crazy this is (and that's rather comical, because _John_ wouldn't actually tell you it's crazy to come back to London, but to leave it pretending you are dead in the first place). But you're not staying long – you just arrived this afternoon, and your train is leaving tomorrow first thing in the morning.

Thinking that you took all the precautions to go undetected even by Mycroft, you cannot help but smirk. Of course it's high time he knew you were alive so he could be of some use, but you'll have the pleasure to contact him upon your arrival in Paris so he knows you were right under his nose and he didn't even notice.

However, the smirk doesn't last long, and soon you remember why you had to come all the way to London, which is probably the most dangerous city in the world for you right now. But precisely. You came to pick up something precious you'd rather have on your side – your "pet". Hopefully, your hair colour will have been clear enough – if he didn't get your message, then you have come for nothing, and that was so troublesome you really hope he _did_ get it and will be here tonight. But you are quite sure he did get it - hadn't he been trained to see such things after all? The _blue_ hair had been obvious enough.

'Here', namely in the Royal Academy of music listening to Bach's cantatas as part of the London Bachfest taking place from October 31 to November 10. The soloists are quite incredible but unfortunately you are too busy discreetly scanning the audience for any sign of the man you're looking for. You wouldn't want him to notice you first, although that is very unlikely. Your hair isn't blue anymore, but you've mastered the art of disguise to perfection, and this is the kind of situations it comes in handy. For tonight you decided to be a history professor, and you are rather proud of the result. Not that you think the grey beard and round glasses suit you. A fleeting thought of the Woman passes in your mind. Always a self-portrait, was it? You have to keep yourself in check not to scoff. But this is the best disguise you have managed to pull yet. To be fair, this is also the most hazardous situation you've been in since your death; and not only because of Mycroft.

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to tell Molly, either. Your brain points out you haven't actually _told_ her anything: you've just said 'blue', and she took it as a joke. She would never understand, would she? Still, it had been an unnecessary risk to take. _Blue._ B.L.U.E. 2-11 / 20-5. No, she wouldn't get it, your brain confirms.

You are startled out of your thoughts by the beginning of the next cantata. _The _cantata. BWV 205: _Zerreißet, zersprenget, zertrümmert die Gruft. "_Destroy, burst, shatter the tomb". Oh, how fitting it was. Your ego certainly had reasons to be stroked tonight.

As you start coughing and cannot seem to stop, people send you dark looks and you are forced to leave the concert room. You keep coughing until you are outside, and only then does it magically subside. In front of the Academy, a man is standing and smoking, his back turned to you. Your eyes scrutinize his silhouette intensely.

There had been only one name in the entire address book to which no phone number was attached. You put on your best smile and walk up to him.

"Good evening, Mr. Moran."

* * *

><p><em>Lips that once were mine<br>Tender eyes that shine  
>They will light our way tonight<br>I'll see you in my dreams_

* * *

><p>"<em>Friends are what protect you." <em>

"_SHERLOCK!"_

"_Are you listening to me?"_

"_Do you even care?"_

"_People are dying!" _

"_I need some air."_

"_It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? Risking your life to prove you're clever."_

"_What the **hell** are you doing?"_

"_Sherlock? We're out of milk."_

"_I had a row, in the shop, with a chip and pin machine."_

"_I told you, no fingers in the JAM! _

_Why don't you use the honey pot or something?"_

"_The world doesn't revolve around you, Sherlock. _

_Remember? There's the Sun."_

"_So... how are we feeling about that?" _

"_I never agreed to that! When did I agree to that?"_

"_We can't giggle, it's a crime scene... Stop it!"_

"_You don't remember, Sherlock, I'm a soldier! I've killed people!"_

"_I always hear "Punch me in the face" when you're speaking but it's usually subtext. "_

"_You just carry on talking when I'm away?"_

_**"We can try to understand  
>The New York Times' effect on man."<strong>_

You wake up with a gasp. And blink. Twice.

_**"Whether you're a brother  
>Or whether you're a mother,<br>You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive."**_

Taking in your surroundings, you remember you're in a room a contact rented for you in the Marais.

_**"Feel the city breakin'  
>And ev'rybody shakin'<br>And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive."  
><strong>_

Groaning, you cut the song short and pick up the phone.

"Yes."

Your voice sounds deeper than usual, and even you are surprised by its low pitch.

"_Is this Moriarty speaking?"_

Frowning with annoyance, you answer without a pause.

"Of course it is. What do you want?"

* * *

><p><em>They will light our way tonight<br>I'll see you in my dreams  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>xXx<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_

* * *

><p>[1]<strong><em> Gematria<em>: **_the substitution of numbers for letters of the Hebrew alphabet, a favourite method of exegesis used by medieval Kabbalists to derive mystical insights into sacred writings or obtain new interpretations of the texts. Some condemned its use as mere toying with numbers, but others considered it a useful tool, especially when difficult or ambiguous texts otherwise failed to yield satisfactory analysis. Genesis 28:12, for example, relates that in a dream Jacob saw a ladder (Hebrew sullam) stretching from earth to heaven. Since the numerical value of the word sullam is 130 (60 + 30 + 40)-the same numerical value of Sinai (60 + 10 + 50 + 10)-exegetes concluded that the Law revealed to Moses on Mount Sinai is man's means of reaching heaven. Of the 22 letters in the Hebrew alphabet, the first ten are given number values consecutively from one to ten, the next eight from 20 to 90 in intervals of ten, while the final four letters equal 100, 200, 300, and 400, respectively. More complicated methods have been used, such as employing the squares of numbers or making a letter equivalent to its basic value plus all numbers preceding it. _[Encyclopedia Britannica]


	12. Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo

****Nutrisco et extinguo:**** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"__  
><em>

_**Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo: "**___I was not, I was, I am not, I don't care"__

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T (for language only).

This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XII: Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo <strong>

_song: Die for your love, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Sew back my eyelids<br>So I can see this  
>And cut the tongue from my mouth<em>

* * *

><p>"John? John! Are you in?"<p>

As he gives the last of his lunch to the lavatory bowl, John asks himself what got into him when he gave Harry a spare key to his flat. Room. _Whatever_, he mumbles at the smiley face on the lid as he flushes down the toilet.

"John? Here you are! Why didn't you answer m..."

She always picks the worse possible times to drop by – and it's sad, because she's really trying. To be there for him. If only she could forget him for a while and _let him be_. She's only just arrive and John feels the anger and bitterness rise in his chest already.

"You told me you didn't throw up so much..."

"I don't."

"But..."

"I don't!"

She winces but her brother is too deeply entangled in guilt to even notice. He sidesteps her and leaves the bathroom. Following quietly, Harry allows her face to darken with worry the moment John has his back to her. He's not getting better. She can't even be happy with her new life if her brother is in such a state – _a shadow_, she thinks grimly.

John sits at the table unblinkingly as Harry fusses about in the small kitchen.

"I've brought you some leftovers from the orange duck Chris and I made! Well, mostly Chris, really..."

"Harry."

"I can't believe I never dated a cook before. She's priceless. Not only for the cooking, of course, but you see what I mean..."

"Harry."

"She's dying to meet you, you know?"

"Dying, is she?"

* * *

><p><em>Then take a steak knife<br>Drill it into my shoulder  
>To let the pain bleed out<em>

* * *

><p>She freezes and pales abruptly, but John is too jaded to feel even a twinge of regret. He only takes the opportunity to get a word in edgeways while she's not babbling.<p>

"Listen, Harry, this isn't against you, but..."

"It's been five months, John."

He stares at her shaken figure standing stiffly in the kitchen, but she's looking the other way. Her hand has curled into a fist and is trembling slightly against the sink. John doesn't understand why she needs to state the obvious.

"I know," he says, because he doesn't see what else he could say, what she expects him to say.

"Won't you get over him? Ever?"

"There's nothing to get over."

At this she turns to him, daggers in her bright eyes.

"Well maybe _that's_ your problem!"

"It sure isn't yours."

The icy reply slaps her in the face and she lets herself fall onto a chair, facing her brother.

"John, why won't you let me help?"

"Because you're not helping, Harry."

"I'm try..."

"Exactly."

She doesn't hide the flash of pain traversing her gaze, but John doesn't see it. He's too deeply entangled in his own.

"Try to get a job!"

"I've been trying!"

"Then maybe something else than a doctor."

He scoffs angrily.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Well, you know, after detox I worked in that small café for a while, I became friends with the owner, and..."

"You want me to be a _waiter_?"

"It's not that bad! And it's just to reintegrate you professionally, get you to do something."

"So I'll stop living on government handouts, huh?"

"That's not what I'm saying!"

"It's what I'm hearing."

"Then your hearing's impaired!"

"Oh, if it were only the hearing!"

* * *

><p><em>If we gotta go<br>This is the way I wanna go  
>Oh I'm gonna die for your love<br>For your love_

* * *

><p>His flinty face breaks into a rictus and Harry kicks herself mentally. Unshaken, John looks her in the eye, his grin receding.<p>

"Let's stop this, Harry."

She shakes her head, but there's more panic than determination in her gesture.

"No. There's no way I'm leaving you like this."

"Why? Does it feel that good to be the assistant instead of the assisted once in your life?"

"You're being unfair..."

"Then please go back to Chris, who's very fair to you, I'm sure. And don't come back!"

"Don't involve Chris in this!"

"Oh, I don't. She's got nothing to do with me. With you drinking, yes."

"I'm not..."

"Don't. I don't care."

"IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU I'VE STARTED DRINKING AGAIN!"

Her roar echoes in the room and the two siblings have a staring contest – Harry's heated glare against John's dull gaze.

He wins.

"Is it, now? I'm so sorry. I think it would be best if you stopped visiting, for your own good – I wouldn't want to be responsible for your alcoholism, I mean it's not like you've been an alcoholic for years."

"John, I'm sor–"

"Get out."

He has a flashback of Mycroft's tall and proud figure standing in the doorway and leaving quietly. For once, he wishes his sister was more like Holmes the elder, and knew when to give up. Now she is looking at him with pleading eyes.

"Please, John, don't..."

"Get. Out."

He'd never seen Harry cry. Not when their parents died – she disappeared for a month. Not when he went to war. Not when he came back wounded. Not when her marriage collapsed.

If someone had told John the first time he'd see his sister cry was when he couldn't get over his best friend's death – a madman he'd only met 18 months prior but with whom he'd have been sharing a flat since day two – he would have laughed. Or thought the person who told him such crazy things to be the madman anyway.

Yet here she was, tears rolling on her cheeks, her eyes piercing John's.

He felt something deep inside him break with a snap – and then it was gone, just like Harry slamming the door in her wake.

* * *

><p><em>I raise a glass to<br>The mess that is you  
>And drink till I unbreak<em>

* * *

><p>John doesn't miss his sister's weekly visits. He doesn't even bother checking his emails anymore – and he still hasn't got a phone. Too much trouble.<p>

The only thing he feels, a few days later, is anger. When he sees that his bank account isn't almost empty (as it should), but instead filled with a rather substantial amount, he screams so much profanities at the video camera above the ATM that the police get to him before Mycroft can, and the British government has to pick him up at the police station (seems like John can't tell the difference between a video camera and a police agent – too bad insulting the latter is a bigger deal according to the law).

John doesn't notice how much older Mycroft looks. Doesn't notice the bags under his eyes, not even the fact that Sherlock could no longer tease him about his diet.

"I thought we could... have coffee."

John arches an eyebrow but refuses to move.

"What is this money? Why now?"

"We found Sherlock's last will in the flat."

John blanches and clenches his fists so tight his knuckles turn white. Speech seems to have deserted him. Mycroft is looking at him closely, observing his reactions. Unlike John, he notices. He knows he came to deal him the final blow. Sherly could be such an egotistical child... and a very dangerous one, too. It wasn't good to hurt the doctor, or what was left of him. But it was worse to jeopardize his safety. If John were to die, who knows what would become of the world in the palm of a Sherlock gone berserk?

So Mycroft goes on.

"He left you everything he had–"

"I don't want to hear this."

"You don't have to. But the money is yours. And so is the flat."

"Shut up."

"Sherlock is dead, Dr. Watson. He's not coming back."

"SHUT UP!"

"What, does it make it more 'real' if I am the one saying it? You are losing your mind, Jo–"

"Yes."

Mycroft blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

"It makes it more 'real'."

They stand face to face for a frozen moment. Then John turns away, adding in a whisper: "And I'm losing my mind."

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. His little brother manages to be more trouble 'dead' than alive.

* * *

><p><em>I wanna grow you back together<br>'Cause we're birds of a feather  
>We leave destruction in our wake<em>

* * *

><p>As he wakes up in the grey light of dawn, John decides he hates everything that begins with a M.<p>

Machines. Mycroft. _Mornings_.

He gets up nonetheless. Now he's got used to his nice little routine. After showering and shaving, he makes breakfast, eats it all, and goes to buy the daily newspaper. He starts reading it on a bench, then returns home to have coffee and finish reading there. Just in case he'd suddenly have to pay a visit to his smiley friend.

John reads a lot of newspapers. He believes it's his last way to connect with the world: to keep in touch. He doesn't want to go on the internet anymore, and he always liked reading his paper in a comfortable armchair at breakfast. At first, it reminded him too much of Sherlock. Yep, he can say his name now, and he's rather proud of it. Not that there are many people he can say it to.

When he gets tired of reading the paper, he makes lunch, and eats it all. No leftovers allowed – that's the doctor in him speaking. Then he goes out for a walk, and never comes back before tea time, regardless of the weather.

He stopped having milk with his tea.

In the evening he reads more papers, and goes to bed early. His new life is dull and pointless. He himself is dull and pointless. Even though he keeps looking for a job, he hasn't gone crazy enough not to realize he's lost the will to be a good doctor. Still, every week or so, he tries a new clinic or hospital. They always manage to find an excuse now: overqualified, must give a chance to young doctors, etc.

He continues hiding his limp. The pain in the leg is nothing compared to the one consuming him from his chest, or his guts, John isn't too sure anymore (and doesn't this confirm further that he really shouldn't practice?). He is polite with the neighbours, who appreciate his quietness, and doesn't tell them how much he wished someone was there to shoot bullets in the wall and break the crushing silence.

All in all, he is doing rather well, he thinks. He hasn't touched drugs since that last time in 221B – hasn't gone back to the flat or to Sherlock's grave either. Somewhere deep inside he is very angry with himself, for destroying everything that still linked him to Sherlock: the grave, Baker street, the milk, even the telly_. _At first he'd enjoyed hearing his friend's comments as he watched it alone, but then something terrible had happened. They'd stopped. He could no longer hear them. He can no longer watch it.

John Watson isn't one to let himself drift away and die slowly. If John Watson decides life is no longer worth living, he'll take measures and be dead within the day.

For now, he hasn't decided anything – as a doctor, he knows a state of shock cannot last for five months. Depression? Boring. Words are boring. They don't mean anything to John anymore. He likes reading newspapers because the words make sense, as they have nothing to do with him.

…Okay, so maybe reading the papers isn't the best way to connect to reality. But at least, it keeps him occupied.

* * *

><p><em>If we gotta go<br>This is the way I wanna go  
>Oh I'm gonna die for your love<br>For your love_

* * *

><p>Lestrade is back in town. Even better, as a D.I. <em>And<em> he's got John's address.

"Can I come in?"

John sighs and steps back.

"I'll kill Mycroft some day."

His voice is rough from lack of use. When was the last time he spoke to someone?

"Surprisingly enough, he seems more worried about you killing yourself," Greg says as if they saw each other just the other day. As if the last time John saw him wasn't at Sherlock's funeral.

"_Him_? Worried? Oh God, don't tell me this is some psychological inversion and that I'll have to deal with Big Brother from now on. Because I'm not putting up with his crap."

Lestrade laughs, and John stares. He hasn't heard someone laugh for ages, except strangers on the street, shadows, like him – ghosts from another dimension. But here is _Lestrade_ chuckling about something _he_ said about _Mycroft_. It feels surreal.

Something in his eyes must have betrayed his bewilderment and confusion, because Greg stops laughing and looks at him gravely.

"I've come to talk about Sherlock's death, John."

"What a surprise."

John realizes there is only one chair in his room, and he gestures to it vaguely. Lestrade doesn't sit.

"No, you don't understand. I mean with Rich Brook and Moriarty..."

"... who are the same person."

"Precisely."

"What do you mean?"

"We should be able to clear his name, John."

"Moriarty's?"

"Oh, don't be stupid. Sherlock's, of course!"

John is still looking at the chair.

"Great. I'm sure he'll be overjoyed. Maybe he'll even throw a little party with his new friends."

The D.I. stares dumbly, eyes wide and at a complete loss. John fakes surprise.

"Don't you think the worms will enjoy the news too?"

"John..."

"Just drop it, Greg. It's great his name can be cleared. His reputation meant a lot to me when he was, you know, _alive,_ because no matter what he said, he wanted recognition. Any genius craves an audience." He stops and his gaze drops, looking at nothing in particular. "But he enjoyed being the only one to know, too: alone, but above everyone else."

"He was no longer alone, he was with y–"

John raises a hand and interrupts. "That's not the point. _He_ is no longer here to crave or enjoy anything."

"But you are, John," Lestrade says with purpose.

John smiles at him sadly.

"Yes. I am."

* * *

><p><em>I'm gonna die for your love<br>For your love  
>Oh I'm gonna I'm gonna I'm gonna die<br>For your love, for your love_

* * *

><p>John gave up the drugs, refused the drinking, and cannot lose himself in work either. So he reads the papers.<p>

He found out that people left him alone eventually, if he didn't say a word and ignored their presence. So he stopped speaking. Not to random people, of course – neighbours, clerks... But to anyone who'd known him and Sherlock together.

_Together_. The nights are the worse part of John's routine. He still has the nightmares, but they're the best part, because he gets to see Sherlock. No, the real torture is waiting for them. _Insomnia. _Something from which Sherlock suffered too, even if he wouldn't admit it. But John knew. He had been so happy to see that Sherlock could handle sleeping in the same room – hell, in the same _bed – _as him.

That night they spent together (how corny that sounded – and how far from the truth, he thought bitterly), John had fallen back to sleep before Sherlock, and when he had got up, his friend was gone. But in between, John had woken up several times and seen the pale, sleeping face buried into the pillow under a mop of black hair. And he had let slumber win him over again, holding that hand in his, lulled by the regular breathing on the linen.

True, they didn't talk much. They didn't have sex, didn't even kiss or hug. But that night, Sherlock made the only promise he'd ever made. A very Sherlockian promise, barely a whisper. One he didn't keep. _I'm not leaving either. _

John feels the coldness of the pillow against his cheek as the wetness from his face spread to it, but does not react. After all, that's part of the routine, too.

* * *

><p><em>For your love<br>_

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_tbc_


	13. Semper fidelis

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_**_  
><em>

_**Semper fidelis:** __"Always faithful__"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XIII: Semper fidelis<strong>

_song: Live it with love, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Sing oh<br>Sing oh  
>Tomorrow you will know there's no day better than today<br>We don't see how lucky these days are till they go away  
>Till these days go away<em>

* * *

><p>Martha Hudson had always liked gossip. It was always interesting to know what was going on around, and chattering with her friends and neighbours had always been one of her favourite occupations. She liked being home by herself too, but enjoyed company even better. Now...<p>

Well, there was always Mrs. Turner next door. Such a good woman. She was so kind she even used to let her use her computer to read...

Oh, and those tenants of hers were so lovely! Quite an adorable couple, nothing like...

Mrs. Hudson frowned slightly as she finished making herself a cuppa. 'There is nothing better than a cuppa to cheer someone up', she thought decidedly.

It had been two weeks or so since she had come back from her sister's. It did her some good to go there and rest herself a bit, what with the never-ending flow of journalists and policemen who had been invading 221B over the summer. She could have gone earlier, of course, but she believed someone needed to be there to open the door and slam it in their faces.

Her sister had been a darling. She must have been dying to know about... but she hadn't asked anything. She had gone so far as to avoid turning on the telly, which wasn't absolutely necessary but still denoted her consideration. The sweet girl had always liked good news, not bad ones anyway. And there was nothing good to be told about this whole dreadful business. Detective Inspector Lestrade had been demoted and sent away from London. Dr. Watson was still a wreck and couldn't find a job as a doctor anywhere. And Sherlock... Sherlock was dead. He was, wasn't he?

Her eyes brightly shone, as they always did when she thought of her boys. She tried very hard not to think about them too much. What good would it do? She wished John hadn't cut all ties with her, because he was the only one she could have taken care of. He still lived in London, of that she was certain. Mycroft was probably looking after him, too. But who was looking after Mycroft?

At the beginning of September, he had wanted to buy the flat where Sherlock had last lived – claiming it was all on Sherlock's will: buy 221B, and give it to John, just like everything else he'd ever owned. That sounded a bit odd to her: even if Sherlock was quite attached to the doctor indeed, he wasn't one to write a will in the first place. So she had asked to see it. Mycroft had smiled, thinly at first, then almost fondly. Almost, because of the tinge of sadness. She had been right, of course. There never was a will. He made it up because he wanted to help John financially, and as for that, he was adamant that this was what Sherlock would have wanted too.

Although Mrs. Hudson quite agreed, she had squarely refused the offer.

"I do not intend to rent that flat anymore, let alone sell it: God forbid I accept any money from you, Mycroft Holmes! This flat was the boys', and always will be."

Is what she'd said. When, upon returning home from her sister's, she had found the place in a rather poor state (and particularly Sherlock's room), she had no longer been so sure. Things had been thrown around and broken. The first-floor bedroom had been turned upside down. On the living-room's table lay a note: John was terribly ashamed of his loss of control, and apologized profusely. _May I suggest you have Mycroft and his men come and move everything out? It is high time we cleared the flat. I am very sorry I cannot do it myself. _

More than anything, the tone of the note had hurt her deeply. It was very polite. And distant. Almost perfunctory – it would have been, without that very last sentence. _I cannot do it myself_.

She had sighed and cried a little. Then she had changed her clothes and spent the evening cleaning the flat. Fixing the lamp and making sure the light bulb wasn't broken. Wiping the kitchen table clean. Picking that abominable skull she always tried to get rid off, and putting it back onto the chimney with a wistful tenderness. The worst had been Sherlock's room. She could only imagine what state John must have been in to make such a mess. She noticed the mattress had been turned.

She did not turn it back.

* * *

><p><em>Gotta live it with love<br>Again again again  
>Sing oh<br>Gotta live it with love  
>Again again again<br>Live it with love  
>Again<em>

* * *

><p>Every time she passed the milk in the supermarket, she was reminded of John's frequent visits, his apologetic smile – <em>Would you happen to have any milk? And... butter, by any chance? <em>Ah, those boys really didn't know how to take care of themselves. Or maybe Sherlock just had used everything that was in the fridge for his experiments.

It had been nice to have someone to talk to about the groceries: what was on special offer this week, which strawberry jam wasn't too expensive and could still be called jam. She didn't quite dare talk about such things even with Mrs. Turner – there was something posh about her. The same couldn't be said of John. He had a very big, capricious and insufferable child to take care of, one that couldn't care less about money and spent most of it on cabs. Of course he'd want to know what products offered the best value for money.

Mrs. Hudson avoided the chip-and-pin machines and smiled up at a blank-faced clerk who didn't even seem to notice her. Oh well. She paid and went back home, alone. She was about to go in when she was approached by one of her neighbours on the doorstep.

"My dear Mrs. Hudson! It's been a while. How have you been doing?"

"Quite well, Mrs. Palmer."

"Oh, but you've been through a lot lately."

"Me?"

"Well, yes, you. What with this terrible business you've had with your tenants – I don't mean to be rude, but they were already the centre of attention before this whole affair, and now..."

"Well, I'm sure they don't care much for attention, now," she replied tightly.

"Oh I'm terribly sorry if I have offended you, I wasn't–"

"I know, my dear, I know. Now if you don't mind..."

"It must be hard for you, I'm sure."

"Well yes, he was very dear to–"

"Certainly no one will want to rent that flat anymore. What will you do with this big house all for yourself?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You see, I think I might have found someone who wouldn't mind taking the flat of a psychopath if it were in Lond–"

"Sherlock wasn't a psychopath. And it's not for rent. Good day to you, Mrs. Palmer."

The door was slammed once more.

Mrs. Hudson stood there for a few minutes, furious beyond words. She had always liked to chat. She was starting to hate it.

The bell interrupted her thoughts, and she opened the door carefully.

"Hello my dear!" Mrs. Turner greeted. "I haven't seen much of you since you've been back from the country, and it's been ages since you've last asked to use the computer so... Are you all right?"

"Quite all right, thank you. How have you been doing?"

"You look positively dreadful! Won't you come in for tea?"

"I don't think–"

"Please do."

Mrs. Hudson smiled weakly and nodded. "Let me just get my groceries inside."

* * *

><p><em>Tomorrow you will know there's no day better than today<br>We hold up and fall down these days are fading all away they're fading away  
>Gotta live them with love<br>Again again again  
>Live em with love<br>Again again again  
>Sing oh<br>Sing oh_

* * *

><p>"Hasn't the weather been dreadful lately?"<p>

"Oh yes, all this rain! We were rather lucky today, though."

"With those clouds? Oh you'll see it'll be pouring before night falls."

"Good thing I went shopping early today."

There was a lull in their pointless chit-chat. Mrs. Hudson blinked, and wondered since when she had become such an antisocial character. Mrs. Turner poured some more tea and took a sip.

"So, how was your sister?"

"Very well, thank you." She tried to sound pleasant. Tried to find interest in the conversation. "The children came for the holiday, and they were very cheerful."

"Oh, you must have been busy then."

"I had plenty of time to rest. But you know how I hate to stay idle anyway. We picked apples in the orchard when the weather allowed it – oh I should bring you some stewed apples next time, they're delicious."

"I would love to! Speaking of apples, have you heard those eerie news?"

"About apples?"

"Someone's been killing young women using poisoned apples. The police are out of their depth! I thought that would have been right down... well, you know, his street. And I think it is that D.I. who used to come by who's on the case."

Mrs. Hudson looked up, confused.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade? He is back in London?"

"Had he left? I didn't know. I just read the papers and his declaration was quoted."

"Was it, now?" said Mrs. Hudson absentmindedly, smiling a little. She'd have to give Mycroft credit for that, at least.

"They don't even know whether it is the same person or not – it is the same poison, and used on red apples only, but the amount of victims seems too important for it to be only one murderer..."

"That's strange, very strange. Aren't there easier ways to kill someone?"

Mrs. Turner stared, a little unsettled by the rather peculiar and offhanded comment.

"Would you care for some cake?" she offered a little quickly. "Oliver made it for their anniversary – isn't that sweet?"

"Lovely. How are Joseph and him doing?"

"Well, very well. I think Joe would like to move to the country, but I'm not sure they quite agree on it yet."

Silence set in. Mrs. Turner stopped cutting the cake and looked up at the pensive expression on her friend's face, before resuming her task and serving her with a piece.

"It's such a pity they didn't marry before all of this happened, isn't it?" she asked in an uncertain tone.

She was surprised to hear Mrs. Hudson laugh and gave her a puzzled look.

"Oh dear, I really cannot picture them _married_... not together anyway."

"Not together? But..."

She didn't finish her sentence when she saw her friend's face darken.

"Dr. Watson is a good man," Mrs. Hudson went on. "He deserves to meet a good person, who would care for him."

After that, they drank their tea in silence. Mrs. Turner was beginning to feel a little uneasy and fidgeted on her seat.

"Oh, there is this show on at four I always watch on Thursdays, would you mind...?"

"Of course not, I should get going."

"No, please don't! Won't you stay and watch it with me? It is very funny, and..."

"_**... a new event in the Sherlock Holmes scandal. This morning Holmes's grave located in Newport cemetery was vandalized. The police hasn't made any declaration but campaigning members of the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' manifested their outrage at such a..."**_

Mrs. Hudson did not need to hear more than this – the image of Sherlock's gravestone spattered with red paint and the thick red letters covering the grass in front of the tomb were enough to send her on her feet. _**FAKE**_.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Turner I'm afraid I must really get going."

"You're not going there, are you?"

"Sorry dear, I'll talk to you later. Thank you for the tea!"

"It's starting to rain!" she called after her. But she was already gone.

* * *

><p><em>How'd we get so far<br>Far from who we really are  
><em>_Gotta live it with love  
>Live it with love<br>Again again again  
>Sing oh<br>Sing oh_

* * *

><p>The clouds were getting darker and darker, but Mrs. Hudson paid it no heed and arrived in front of the grave with determination on her face and a bucket full of disinfectants in her hand. For a moment she wondered what Sherlock's mother was doing. She knew Mrs. Holmes was still alive, and couldn't understand her absence in such situations. Had Sherlock been her son, she...<p>

She swallowed. Had Sherlock been her son, she would have delayed her going to her sister's so she could slam the door in the journalists' faces. She would have refused to let go of his flat. Then she would have spent some time at her sister's in mourning, far from the city that had taken her son from her. Then she would have come back and faced the emptiness of 221 Baker Street. She would have cleaned the flat and put the skull back on the mantelpiece, where she would have known Sherlock liked it to be. She would have cleaned his bedroom, but would have respected John's privacy by not examining the mattress too closely, because John would have been the closest thing she would've had to a son-in-law. She would have snapped at stupid neighbours who believed the media and could not understand that she would believe in Sherlock to her grave. And she would have scrubbed her son's grave if it had been violated.

Rolling up her sleeves, she was about to put on the latex gloves she had brought when a voice interrupted her.

"My dear Mrs. Hudson. I should have known you would come."

She barely spared Mycroft a glance. "Well. I'm not sure I was expecting you." Ignoring him, she took a step towards the stone.

He put a hand on her shoulder.

"Do you not believe I would have the grave of my own brother cleaned up after it was defiled?"

Her lips quivered with irritation and exhaustion. It had been a bad day.

"Can't people let him rest in peace? He's..."

She stopped abruptly.

"Is he really dead, Mycroft?"

His voice was very soft when he answered, as if she were a child.

"What are you saying? You cannot possibly–"

"When you asked to buy the flat, I was hoping..."

The grip on her shoulder tightened and Mycroft's face clouded over at the trembling in her voice.

"I'm afraid he is."

He let his arm fall back limply alongside his body. A sob racked Mrs. Hudson's body and she did not take another step towards the grave.

After a very long pause, she swallowed the lump in her throat.

"How is Dr. Watson doing?"

"Well, very well."

"Oh, don't you dare lie to me, boy!" she burst out.

"As well as can be expected of someone who has lost his pillar," he amended.

"I cleaned Sherlock's room," she said darkly.

"Why did it need cleaning?"

"You know very well why. I'm sure you've left those cameras of yours in the entire flat."

"Nobody lives there anymore, there is no reason for me to do that."

She looked him in the eye.

"Then what was your reason for putting heroine in one of the drawer, pray tell?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed to slits and his mouth curved imperceptibly. Then the expression was gone and replaced by an amused smile.

"I should never underestimate you, my dear friend."

"Mycroft Holmes, answer me."

"Mrs. Hudson, do you know how likely it is for someone who just suffered the death of the dearest person in their life, when said person had history as an addict, to go on drugs?"

She shivered.

"So you thought providing him with the drug would help? Dear God, you are out of your–"

"Of course not. But I needed him to take it at the flat."

"Excuse me?"

He sighed. Oh, this was tiring. Mummy gave him headaches too, but at least she understood. Quickly. However, Mummy barely had a heart.

"If he took the drugs in the flat for the first time, he was more likely to be in a state of very violent grief. Seeing the flat again would be a blow, because Sherlock would not be there, as obvious as it may sound. He would feel desperate and look for him – or anything of him – anywhere, but especially in his room..."

"You are horrible, I cannot believe–"

"...so he would find the drugs there, but it should not be cocaine – it heightens the senses, and would only make the pain much worse, in his case. However, it had to look like cocaine."

"Why in the world?"

"Because John Watson would not have gone on drugs if it was not something that somehow linked him to Sherlock. It had to be cocaine. Except it could not be. So, white powder."

"Which I had to clean up in the room, thank you very much."

He smiled.

"I hope you put on a mask."

"Of course I did!" she cried in outrage, then saw his little smile and sighed. "Oh, Mycroft, just tell me where this is going already."

"He'd take the drug. Realize it wasn't cocaine, because he's a doctor – and not so much of an idiot."

"Mycroft!"

"Please let me finish, will you? He would take the drug, and the whole experience would be a torture. He wanted to see Sherlock. There was a high chance he would. So maybe _all of it _wouldn't be horrible. But the end would be, undoubtedly."

"That was a terribly cruel thing to do."

"It was a necessity." Just like lying to her was. And also preventing anyone from cleaning away this mess too early, before Sherlock had a chance to hear from it somehow. You never knew."He will not ever touch drugs again," he added firmly.

"And how can you be so sure?!" She almost screamed. He held her gaze.

"Because he will not stand another farewell. And because he realized once and for all that it wasn't Sherlock – could never be Sherlock, whatever he saw or heard or felt." He paused. "He will never take drugs again, because every time he'll wake up from it, Sherlock will die all over again."

"Sometimes I think you are a horrible man."

"Whatever are you thinking the rest of the time?" he asked with a world-weary smile.

"Oh, don't be cynical."

"I was quite serious."

"I know you were. And I know you are doing your best to protect John Watson from himself – but if you could remember that he is a living, conscious person, I think it would do you some good."

He didn't think so, no. Sherlock had already made the mistake to care, and he certainly would not follow such an ill-advised example. Not to mention the utter wreck John Watson had become all because of sentiments._  
><em>

"I still do not quite understand, you know" he said almost to himself. "How Sherlock could have become so attached to John Watson."

"I wonder how attached he was to him if he thought the best idea was to throw himself from the roof of a building in front of his very eyes."

Precisely, Mycroft thought grimly.

"Why? Do you know why Sherlock killed himself, Mycroft?"

"I still cannot quite fathom it, I must say."

It was true. Of course Sherlock wouldn't want the three people he ever cared about to die. But he had known Moriarty would target them – and he knew who he wouldn't think of targeting. He hadn't just killed the man or asked Mycroft to put them under protection: he had set out to destroy (or control?) the threat at its source, cutting himself from them because he was the reason their lives were put into jeopardy in the first place. This wasn't just 'not wanting them to die'. This was wanting them to live, safely, happily if possible, without him. The more Mycroft thought about it, the more he realized how utterly childish – or insane – that had been, even for his brother. He wouldn't have done it just to defy him. But it had been a mix. A terrible mix of very different factors: his own request and betrayal (though Mycroft didn't like the word: he hadn't betrayed his brother, he had sold him, and informed him of it), his addiction to the thrill, his ridiculous pride and audacity, his _feelings_ for people he should have only used. Because he was the one at fault in the end: they became targets not because they associated with him, but because he was stupid enough to love them and make it obvious for anyone to see. Well. For anyone with a proper brain.

"John was interesting, considering his addiction to the thrill of near-death situations. But still."

If Mrs. Hudson wondered what that had to do with Sherlock's death, she didn't point it out. Mycroft had seemed lost in his thoughts, and she preferred to let him ramble – it was such a rare occasion. Something must really have been on his mind. He never truly talked, because he always thought very carefully of each and every word he uttered, and always uttered them for a very specific purpose. Unlike Sherlock, she thought wistfully. Mycroft would have probably begged to differ on that point.

"I cannot quite comprehend how Sherlock became so attached, and how John suffered living in the same flat with him for so long."

Mrs Hudson shrugged.

"Sometimes, you are a very silly boy, Mycroft Holmes, very much like Sherlock." He snorted, but she ignored him and went on. "Your brother does not care for 'interesting' people. He cares for interesting murderers and victims, because people don't _come_ near him. Dr. Watson came, and he stayed."

She paused, and he sent her a half-concealed puzzled look. But her eyes were on the gravestone and she did not see him. He did not correct her use of the tenses.

"That in itself must have been enough for Sherlock," she said quietly. "He was intrigued with Dr. Watson because Dr. Watson was intrigued with him. He cared, because the good man cared for him."

Mycroft's eyes grew slightly wider and he marvelled at her insight. Then he smiled, because he should never have expected anything less of the dear woman. She was the only one who managed to give him lessons in humility unwittingly.

Silence fell over them and the rain started to fall. Turning his gaze to the empty grave, he opened his umbrella, and raised it above their heads.

"He cared for you, too."

And as she brought her handkerchief to her eyes, he added quietly: "Thank you."

* * *

><p><em>Gotta live it with love<br>Again again again  
>Live it with love<br>Again again again  
>Sing oh <em>

* * *

><p><em>oOo<em>

* * *

><p><em>.<br>_

_._

_._

_tbc_


	14. Ibi deficit orbis

****A.N.: ****All my thanks to Wingatron for betaing this chapter.

****Nutrisco et extinguo:**** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"_  
><em>

**_Ibi deficit orbis_:** "Here the world finishes_"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XIV: <strong>_Ibi deficit orbis_

_song: Winter Song, by Ingrid Michaelson and Sara Bareilles_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>This is my winter song to you.<br>The storm is coming soon,  
>It rolls in from the sea<em>

_._

* * *

><p>John decides he is doing much better.<p>

Sure, he still doesn't have a job, although he has been offered one – Harry meddling with his life again, no doubt. Doctors Without Borders. It is very kind of her to keep trying even after he has thrown her out of his flat. Room. He still refuses to see her, and she does not try to contact him anymore.

But then he received those documents about DWB and he knew it was her doing, because Mycroft would never have been so stupid as to think John was a man who could be sent abroad and deal with horrors without being on the front line, holding a rifle and not only a stethoscope. Still, it was nice of her. And it confirmed John in his belief that they would never understand each other.

Winter has come, and John has always found the cold invigorating. It is more pleasant to go for a brisk walk when the temperature is low – not too low, of course, but it never is too low in England. It would never get cold enough in London for it to be dangerous to take a walk outside. Sleeping on the street is another matter altogether, but one that does not concern John. Yet.

For now, he just enjoys the cold season. He finds he likes it all the more so as the days are getting shorter – not that he prefers the nights. But he is glad his evenings do not drag on so much as before, because he can reduce the number of newspapers he buys.

His sleep has got much better too: he still has nightmares regularly, but not every day, and even when he does, the rest of the night is spent in a deep, dreamless slumber. Waking up is not pleasant, but he is used to it by now. That's always been one of his best qualities: endure and adapt.

* * *

><p><em>My voice; a beacon in the night.<br>My words will be your light,  
>to carry you to me.<br>Is love alive?  
>Is love alive?<br>Is love..._

* * *

><p>The bad thing about December is that it is festive. John never thought he would consider festive to be bad – and it isn't, really. But walking around London with all those decorations only makes him realize that he can no longer feel the Christmas spirit or anything of the sort. His previous Christmas was a complete failure, and he cannot believe it has only been a year. It seems to belong to another time.<p>

Maybe it does.

It doesn't pain John to see couples and families shopping for presents and laughing happily together, because he's always gone shopping alone anyway. It cannot bring back memories and fill him with regrets; only show him what he might have had in the future, had he married a good woman and had children. Had he chosen _mundane_ over _dangerous_. It can only show him what he will never have.

Well, that should be painful, he admits to himself. But it isn't. Bitter, perhaps, but not really painful. As he walks down the street John ponders the thought for a while, wondering why being alone in his forties without a wife or kids when that's what he always thought he would have for a life does not hurt as much as it should. Perhaps because the fault lies within him, and him alone: after all, he is too twisted and crippled to be a good husband and father.

Those are his grim considerations when he notices that he is being followed. Again.

For the past few weeks, Molly Hooper has been stalking him. Perhaps even before, but John had not noticed it then. It would have been funny and even sweet if she had been someone else. If she too had not belonged to another time.

So for once, John sighs and makes up his mind. He waits until she is pretending to look at the jewellery in a shop-window, and he approaches her.

"Hello, Molly. What a coincidence meeting you here."

"Oh, hello, John! It's been such a long time! How have you been doing?"

Her smile is bright and silly, unsure; her cheeks are tinged with pink as she looks back at him. But she doesn't seem surprised in the least. He realizes then that she hasn't been trying to go unnoticed: quite the contrary, in fact. She's been waiting for him to come and talk to her.

A wave of weariness hits him and he feels like he's taken ten years in the span of a few seconds. As he doesn't answer, Molly starts fidgeting a little and says eventually:

"Would you like to have coffee?"

"Black, with two sugars?" he asks innocently, a hint of cruelty in his voice. She pales.

"Oh, John..."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighs.

"I'm sorry, Molly, I'm being a complete twat. Come on, let's have coffee. My treat."

Her face lights up and she is too pleasantly surprised to break the mood by pointing out _she_ has a salary and should probably treat him.

"So, have you been busy at the morgue lately? With all those weird murders by poison..."

"Oh yes, I've seen some of them! Hydrogen Cyanide."

"Don't all apples contain some?"

"Yes, but only some – and they don't contain potassium cyanide. It seems the amount of prussic acid the forensics found in each body was enough to kill an ox."

"What a waste."

She nods and people sitting at the tables around them eye the strange couple with frowns and puzzlement. John and Molly do not seem to notice.

"That's what I thought too! Why would they use so much poison just to kill off one person? If such an amount is used every time, it can't be a miscalculation either."

"But we don't even know if it's the doing of only one person, do we?"

Sipping her coffee, Molly looks out of the window.

"No. But they're still all related, whether there's only one murderer or several."

They fall silent and drink quietly. Molly feels trapped: she does not want to ask John about his life, as she knows it can't be good, but she can't talk about that case too much, because something tells her there is more to it than meets the eyes. It is such a weird kind of murder... something Moriarty would have been capable of doing. Maybe helping many different people kill off the person they wanted, even though they weren't related at all, making it look similar each time but preventing anyone from getting to him. Except Moriarty was dead. Wasn't he?

"Something that's more than a man."

She jumps on her seat and looks up at John, but his face is blank. He seems to have made the comment offhandedly. Because he is staring absently at his cup of tea, she can take her time and observe him. He doesn't look broken: the bags under his eyes are barely noticeable, and he's gained back some weight – D.I. Lestrade had told her he was very thin when he had last seen him. Good news, then. Maybe he is finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

><p><em>They say that things just cannot grow<br>Beneath the winter snow,  
>Or so I have been told.<em>

* * *

><p>John doesn't regret he had coffee with Molly. She's such a sweet girl, after all. He even noticed she looked older today – more mature. Maybe she finally found a serious boyfriend. Then he remembers how she's been stalking him, and thinks she probably couldn't have managed that, working at the morgue, and dating someone. When she left, she said they should meet more often for a drink. He agreed. Now as he walks back to his room, he must admit he doesn't intend to see her again.<p>

However she was so kind as to mention he could apply for a job at Bart's. Mike Stamford was working there too, after all. She knew it wasn't the best of places, but...

As he passes _Speedy's_, John realizes he hasn't walked in the correct direction. At all. His blood runs cold and he stops dead in his track. His steps have taken him to 221B Baker Street. He stares at the door dumbly as Christmas carols fill the air.

"_Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy,  
>'Do you hear what I hear?<br>Ringing through the sky, shepherd boy,  
>Do you hear what I hear?'"<em>

Oh yes, he did. And it wasn't the voice he wanted to hear.

"Excuse me, are you Dr. Watson?"

He turns and meets the eyes of a dark-haired man with a chubby face.

"You are, aren't you? I recognize your picture from your blog."

John has no idea where this is going, so he remains silent and stares at the stranger with half-empty eyes.

"Are you mute or something?"

"Who are you?"

"Harry Wilson. Jennifer was my wife."

John can't stop the sarcasm dripping from his answer.

"I'm sorry, I haven't dated any married woman recently – actually I've never dated a Jennifer, either."

"Are you mocking me?"

This is all so absurd and John is still shocked to be standing in front of his old flat. He can't quite fathom what in the world the man wants with him.

"My wife is dead!"

Oh God, he is seriously starting to give him a headache now.

"My condolences. Now if you don't mind..."

The man grabs him by the shoulder and roars: "But I do! You were the ones who _killed _her!"

At this, John feels cold fury rise in his guts and he turns slowly.

"Excuse me?"

"My wife! First you wrote all this nonsense about a string of lovers on your stupid blog and I didn't even know someone was defaming my wife on the web! Oh, but I couldn't believe it was her, and it was all so childish on your part that I thought I'd just let you off with your little cases you told like bloody adventures when my wife had just been murdered. But then that bloody detective of yours is proved to be a fake and kills himself, and I wonder: how could that blogger of his not be in the know? You planned the murder of my wife and you–"

The iron fist he receives on his nose cuts him short and he screams in surprise.

"You broke my nose!" he cries, holding his bleeding face.

"And if you don't want me to break something else, you'll kindly shut up now."

This pushes the man over the edge and he throws himself at John with blinding rage.

"Threats, now! You murderer, how dare you do this to my wife and defile her memory by saying she was an adulteress!"

"She _was_ cheating on you, moron! And we didn't kill her. Rather we were almost killed trying to find out who her murderer was!"

That isn't exactly true – John did kill someone that day, but certainly not Jennifer Wilson. However the man's anger is contagious and the fact that they're already fighting like cat and dog doesn't help either.

"You, there! Stop this fight immediately!"

Oh great. Could the police ever have worse timing?

* * *

><p><em>They say we're buried far,<br>Just like a distant star  
>I simply cannot hold.<br>Is love alive?  
><em>

* * *

><p>John is thinking his day cannot possibly get worse – something no one should ever, ever think – when as he is waiting to be allowed to go home, Sally Donovan enters the room and sees him. He wonders if this is the day he's bound to murder someone with his own two hands. Coming up to him, she looks at his black eye and cut lip, and frowns.<p>

"What in the world happened to you?"

He believes it wiser to remain silent, and ignores her.

"Hello? Can't you hear me? Have you been fighting with someone?"

What's with the chiding and bloody _motherly_ tone? John feels the rage rise up again.

"Oh no, Sergeant Donovan, I just fell down the stairs and the third step decided to press charges."

She gaped, nonplussed.

"Well, aren't you energetic?"

"And so are you, Sergeant. Your guilty conscience isn't smothering you, I can see."

"Guilty? Why would _I_ feel _guilty_?"

"Right. No idea."

"Look, now... I'm sorry the Freak died. Don't give me that look, he was a freak, and I still think he was an insufferable prick. It doesn't mean I wanted him to kill himself."

"Yes, well your assumptions didn't help."

"They weren't just assumptions! They were logical deductions and even if today new elements tend to show that he wasn't a criminal after all, at the time it was a legitimate conclusion! I wasn't his friend, all right? I am a police officer and my duty is–"

"–to let your petty feelings of resentment and inferiority complex rule your mind and jump on the first occasion you could find to get back to the man who always humiliated you? Good job, you succeeded."

Her face pales at the comment, and she clenches her fists; but before she can say anything a woman comes back with a folder and tells John he may leave, since Mr. Wilson is pressing charges not for aggravated assault, but for the murder of his late wife, without any evidence whatsoever. John does not even bother to answer and stands up to leave.

"Sherlock Holmes was an insufferable prick, Sergeant. Only he can be blamed for turning everyone he met against him, and all the wrong people too – policemen, journalists... One could say he brought it upon himself."

"I never–"

But John doesn't want to hear anything more from her.

"As a citizen, you were just cheap. As a police officer, you are a failure."

He does not have to hide his limp as he marches away in his typical military stance.

* * *

><p><em>This is my winter song.<br>December never felt so wrong,  
>'cause you're not where you belong;<br>Inside my arms._

* * *

><p>John is very glad Mycroft hasn't come to pick him up at the Met this time. Seeing another face he wants to smash wouldn't have been... good.<p>

He is walking back to his little room, cursing under his breath because it isn't close to the Met and he didn't bring an umbrella. Not that he really cares, but he knows he _should_ care, and so he tries to or at least acts like he does. Of course, he doesn't have any cash on him, and vowed never to spend a dime on transportation, even the underground, in order to buy more newspapers. He knows it's stupid, and he should have hated newspapers. Wasn't he always told not to trust them anyway? That he must read between the lines? But he's having a hard time reading the lines already, so he won't even try to be smart.

When the drizzling turns into heavy showers, he tells himself the normal thing to do is to look for shelter, and so he takes refuge just in front of an organic food store. There are people standing there already, and they cast sidelong glances at him because he's drenched, and it doesn't really make much sense to take shelter now.

Among them, John notices a familiar face, and turns slowly, praying she hasn't seen him.

"John! Is that you?"

Sarah. He takes a deep breath. How can his day have gone so wrong? Was everyone stalking him? And _God_, even that nutcase of a cuckold...

"John?"

"Hi, Sarah. Dreadful weather, isn't it?"

She searches his eyes and a flash of worry traverses her gaze. But it is gone so soon John isn't even sure it was there in the first place.

Her hair has been cut and her face is bright and flushed. She is wearing a ring.

"I got married in the spring," she says, following his gaze.

"Congratulations." His tone is sincere.

Seeing this woman he flirted with and never managed to properly date because of his flatmate now married, sparkling and beautiful on this rainy day, should be a blow, if only to his pride. But in her lovely hands that once clung to him in a Chinese circus, he only sees a tall, slender figure disrupting the show and fighting on stage with assassins. In her charming green eyes that lit up with a teasing glint as she went to take a shower and asked him to make breakfast, he only remembers the sheer panic that seized him and the gut-wrenching fear of having lost the only thing that mattered.

So he smiles perfunctorily and lets her pedestrian chatter wash over him as the rain never seems to stop.

* * *

><p><em>I still believe in summer days.<br>The seasons always change  
>And life will find a way.<em>

* * *

><p>Finally walking down his street, John hears a carol that makes him stop in his tracks.<p>

"_Oh, bring us a figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer_  
><em>Good tidings we bring to you and your kin<em>  
><em>Good tidings for Christmas and a Happy New Year!<em>"

John laughs. Of course it has to be that song. He walks past the little choir, ignoring the joyous glow on their faces. Maybe he doesn't even see it.

When he arrives in front of the building he lives in, a very attractive woman is waiting on the doorstep, and John thinks he's had enough.

"Please tell Mycroft I won't start giving him Christmas phone calls either. Have a nice day."

"_We wish you a Merry Christmas_  
><em>We wish you a Merry Christmas<em>  
><em>We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Ha–<em>"

He shuts the door on the gleeful song.

* * *

><p><em>I'll be your harvester of light<br>and send it out tonight  
>so we can start again.<br>Is love alive?_

* * *

><p>So Christmas night has come, and something like jealousy creeps up John's heart. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. But he can't help it.<p>

One year ago Irene Adler was supposedly dead, and he had to deal with a mourning Sherlock for Christmas and New Year's Eve. Jeanette had dumped him and his flatmate had been brooding for weeks and composing dreary violin pieces.

When the Woman had truly died, John couldn't bring himself to tell him. So he'd lied. Only for Sherlock's own good? Really?

The gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach today says otherwise. John had been confronted with death before meeting Sherlock. Many different kinds of death and grief. He knew that death somehow conferred a glow to the one we missed. The person was idealized and became so unreachable that their memory was ingrained in the deepest recesses of one's soul. He didn't know whether Sherlock had loved her or not, but he had certainly been fascinated with her. John couldn't allow her to take any more room in his mind palace. In his heart, adds a little voice soon stifled with a groan.

But today, she has won, hasn't she? Sherlock is dead, and so is she; it's almost like she's called him back to her.

And John hates her for it.

* * *

><p><em>This is my winter song.<br>December never felt so wrong,  
>'cause you're not where you belong;<br>Inside my arms._

* * *

><p>When he opens his eyes in the morning and remembers his thoughts from the previous evening, he feels stupid and disgusted with himself. So disgusted in fact he must run to the bathroom and empty his stomach in the bowl. It's the first time he throws up this month: John thought he was done with it.<p>

Panting a little from the rather violent rush upon waking, he lifts his head and catches the eye of his smiley friend. He grins back.

"Merry Christmas."

* * *

><p><em>This is my winter song to you.<br>The storm is coming soon  
>it rolls in from the sea.<em>

_My love a beacon in the night.  
>My words will be your light<br>To carry you to me._

* * *

><p>For the first time in months, John hears the silence in his room that day, and so decides to go out. It's Christmas day, and the streets are all empty. But it's snowing, and that alone makes John feel like he is greeted with the loving embrace of a mother.<p>

But it is not of his mother that he thinks as he stands on the doorstep, watching the snowflakes fall and cover the silent street.

No. It isn't of his mother.

* * *

><p><em>Is love alive?<em>

_Is love alive?_

_Is love alive?_

_Is love alive?_

_Is love alive?_

_Is love alive?_

_._

_._

_._


	15. Per inania regna

****A.N.:**** The fairy tale which appears in this chapter is 'The Stars in the Sky_' _by Joseph Jacobs – it is in the public domain, but it's still not mine. The libretto of Antonín Dvořák's _Rusalka_ was written by Jaroslav Kvapil. Many thanks to Heredhether for correcting my Czech transcript!

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_**_  
><em>

**_Per inania regna_: **_"In the kingdom of shadows"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XV: <strong>_ Per inania regna_

_song: December Baby, by Ingrid Michaelson _

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>The colored lights, they brightly shine.<br>Unlike your eyes avoiding mine.  
>The snow is folding sheet upon sheet.<br>Our hands not holding as we cross the street._

* * *

><p>Above the fireplace the skull is grinning. That is the only detail that catches your attention as you turn back from the window, still playing the violin. You've been playing it for an hour or so, looking at the snow falling. Now, as you hear the entrance door, you'd rather look at John coming back from the clinic. The snow is soothing, and John probably won't be. He'll be tired and only want to have some dinner and have a relaxing evening watching the telly. Except there isn't any food left in the fridge, and you have something else planned for tonight – not exactly a chase, but something that could quite possibly end in one nonetheless.<p>

Yet you know John will understand, as always. He'll complain a bit, maybe even more than just a bit. But he'll still be by your side making sure no Golem or mad cabby bumps you off. Faithful, long-suffering John. Sometimes you wonder how the addiction to the thrill can be powerful enough to make him bear with... well, you. But then again, don't you put up with some of his traits too? His mind is average after all, and you have to explain everything, or he wouldn't follow your reasoning. To be fair, that is rather the point. Explaining forces you to formulate your thoughts and sometimes something new pops up: talking to John, sometimes simply listening to him, can trigger a new dynamic in your thought process. He's great at pointing the obvious as well – what was obvious to ordinary people, at any rate – and at gathering data, which is always helpful. All in all, you have to admit that you only get the benefits of your... association. Naturally, he gets some benefits too: sharing a flat with you and following you on cases makes his life _interesting_. He's never bored, and as Mycroft so smoothly puts it, that is good.

You like playing while you wait for him – although you'd never admit, even to yourself, that you are _waiting_ for anything. You are thinking. Putting some order in your mental palace. Pondering a case. You truly never think of John, because he's always there.

That isn't completely true. When you first met him, you thought about him. A lot. Less than about the serial suicides, though. Still, you spent time planning a way to make him take the room in 221B. You didn't need to see him twice to know everything you needed to know: a few minutes were enough to discern exactly what it would take to turn Mike Stamford's old school buddy just returned from Afghanistan John Watson into Sherlock Holmes' flatmate and colleague. No, the one and only mystery is why you wanted to keep him by your side after that first meaning. It was a good opportunity – but that isn't enough to explain your interest. It didn't matter, though. You only had to show him his limp was psychosomatic, and that he couldn't survive without the thrill you could provide. The battlefield brought right in central London. That is why he stayed. And that is why you didn't worry about him getting mad at an empty fridge when you could offer an exciting infiltration plan instead.

So when he enters the room, you finish your piece casually and put the violin back in its case.

"Sherlock? What happened to the fridge's contents?"

"Experiment."

You hear the door of the fridge being slammed, and you look up at John, a bit startled.

"Care to be more specific?"

He is angry. That is expected – but the question is: why is he _so_ angry? Walking fast to your coat and scarf, you announce precipitately:

"We have a case. You know those poisoned apples? Well, Lestrade finally called today and–"

"I don't care."

"Beg your pardon?"

"I. Don't. Care. I asked you about the fridge, Sherlock."

"Why is the fridge so important? We have a case, John!"

"You have a case."

"Excuse me?"

"Apologies not accepted. You know what? I don't care. I'm tired of this."

You stop abruptly in the stairwell. John is behind you, but a few meters away, still in the living-room. He has no intention of following. Usually, you would have just scoffed 'fine' and gone alone. But something in his eyes tells you this isn't over. Or rather, that it is. You feel your blood turn cold.

"Tired of what?"

You don't dare turn to look at his face and observe him. Why? You should. Otherwise you'll miss something important. But you are frozen on the spot, and everything happens mechanically, as if beyond your control.

"Of you, Sherlock. I'm tired of you."

He walks past you and completely ignores the look of utter loss you send him as he goes up the stairs to his room. Panic rises in your chest and this time, you are the one following him. He doesn't bother closing the door and starts packing.

"What are you doing?"

"I believe that's quite obvious, Sherlock."

"Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?"

Agitated, you start fidgeting.

"You have nowhere to go. You won't go to your sister, and there is no serious girlfriend you–"

"Yes, there is!"

His roar makes you jump and the frenzy turns into dread.

"I'm tired of putting up with you, Sherlock, and I'm moving out. Just find another flunkey."

"You're not–"

"Exactly. Not anymore."

Consternated, you stare, rendered speechless. Where is your voice? This isn't the time to be in shock. You need John to stay. No, you _want _him to stay. How has it come to this?

He walks right past you and throws before leaving:

"I'll pay this month's rent. Better find someone else for the next if you can't afford it yourself – though somehow, I doubt it."

Only then do you seem to find your voice again.

"John!"

The moment you scream his name everything is turned upside down and your vision becomes blurry. Nausea and dizziness hit you as you open your eyes again and are greeted by an eerie blue glow. The Pool.

* * *

><p><em>You have had your fill your fill of me.<br>You have had your fill your fill of me._

* * *

><p>You cannot grasp the situation because it doesn't make sense. None of it. But surprisingly enough, you cannot bring yourself to care either – all that matters is John and that you must talk to him and make things right again. Scratch that, make him stay: whether it is right for him is none of your concern.<p>

Standing by the water, you suddenly realize there is no roof. In fact, no walls either: you are surrounded only by buildings. Bart's rooftop.

Across the pool, Moriarty stands grinning widely.

"Where is John?"

Walking toward you like a puppet without joints, he answers in his infuriating sing-song voice:

"_See-saw Marjorie Daw _

_Johnny shall have a new master_

_He shall earn but a penny a day_

_Because he can't work any FASTER!"_

On the last word he takes out his gun and shoots you. The pain in your dislocated shoulder knocked you down, and all you see is his wooden, wrecked figure explode against the sky. You fall into the pool and drown.

The alert alarm in your brain drills through the pain and tells you this is a nightmare and that now would be a good time to wake up. But something primal, fervid and _stupid_ compells you to keep fighting against the water filling your lungs because you _have _to catch up with John, stop him before he can get into a cab and leave for God knows where. Before he can leave for good. But your forces are leaving you already and soon everything goes black.

When you regain consciousness, gasping and choking, you are beached on a grey seashore. The wet sand feels cold against your skin and drenched clothes. Sitting up, you give the scenery a circular stare and stop on a figure walking towards you. Your eyes light up and a wave of hope washes over you as you stand up and run towards the man.

"John! John!"

He seems to be with other people – and an animal, too? Probably a dog. It doesn't matter, all that matters is that you have found him and... Walking up to him, you put a hand on his shoulder, making him turn to you in bewilderment.

"John."

You're panting and can't manage to utter another word for the moment. John looks at you in surprise, then frowns. The woman walking by his side doesn't stop, and keeps chatting and giggling with the little boy whose hand she holds. A girl with braids is running and playing with the dog. There is no recognition in John's eyes as he stares at you coldly. You gulp.

"John, I'm sor–"

"Sorry, but you can't be here."

Your hand clenches his shoulder desperately.

"Please, I–"

"You're dead, you see."

He walks away.

* * *

><p><em>I wore the dress I thought you loved.<br>But my boots are filling with snow you shoved  
>Off of the car we climb into.<br>You finished first, I must catch up to you._

* * *

><p>When you woke up, sobs were racking your body, and you thought you were drowning all over again. But as you realized they were <em>sobs<em>, you willed yourself to stop right away. You had become very talented at controlling your breathing, and the mechanism was now set in place. It was the sobbing and the consequent lack of air that had woken you up this time, and you cursed the stupid nightmares that still managed to have a toll on your brain and body.

To will the remains of the dreams further away, you went back to numbers.

SH = JM

18 + 8 = 9 + 12

26 = 23

After all those months, the table was ingrained in your mind palace, pervading every room. It already was after a few hours, your brain protested. You ignored it.

**H**

8

**I / Q**

9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

** / Z**

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

At the beginning, every time you shut your eyelids you would see it engraved on the inside of your skin, glowing in the dark as if you had fixed your gaze on neon light letters and numbers. By now, you didn't even need to visualize it anymore.

You hadn't been sleeping in three days, and you knew that you needed to sleep tonight, because you'd be having a busy week. So squirming a little on the couch, you closed your eyes tighter and put your brain on research mode. Codes and riddles didn't need to involve people. You didn't need to understand a thought process, but just numbers and letters. Statistical probabilities. Of course, knowing how Moriarty's mind worked could have seemed helpful – but it didn't matter. Because he was you, and you were him.

You'd always hated riddles. Now their blankness was the only lullaby that could send you to sleep. You let your brain do the scan and concentrated on your breathing.

1895  
>AHIE  AHJE

S I/J E

SJ E

SJ equals? S equals J?

E 2nd vowel

IOU = 9 14 20 = 33 (= 6?)

6 = F

… F?

BWV Bach Werke Verzeichnis

2 21 20

2 3 2

43

7

G

Bach's partita 1 in B minor, BWV 1002

B = 2

1002 = A00B

α00β

αωωβ

α to ω, ω to β

"I am the Alpha and the Omega"

α to ω, ω to β ; α has been lost and only β remains

1 has died, only 2 remains

You're me! You're me...

Luckily, slumber soon numbed your blathering brain.

* * *

><p><em>You have had your fill your fill of me.<br>You have had your fill your fill of me._

* * *

><p>You never thought about the dreams from the previous night, and today was no exception. The train from Toulouse to Barcelona was a seven hour ride. Sitting down doing nothing for all this time wasn't very appealing, all the more so as you couldn't smoke on trains anymore, even in special compartments. Stupid French people, always so extreme: it was either all or nothing. You could either smoke everywhere, even in hospitals, or nowhere at all. You frowned.<p>

The iPhone in your pocket vibrated and you picked it up to read the message. You still preferred to text.

_**Apple pie almost done baking. Should I add brown sugar for the crisp? -SM**_

You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. The idiot apparently believed it necessary to do more than was requested of him. Had Moriarty trained him that way ? It was rather pointless and quite ridiculous. As if he could think of anything you hadn't already thought of.

_**Why not nuts and bolts, while we're at it? **_

Pressing the Send button, you stifled an annoyed sigh. You knew he wasn't trying to be friendly, sending you all those useless texts. If anything, he was rather being cheeky. But he was key to everything you had planned. _Sebastian_. Had Moriarty chosen him also for the name starting with an S? It sounded absurd, but he wasn't above that. S and J in reversed roles. Yet they still seemed to have worked like magnets. You scratched the thought. If S and J truly were magnets, then S and S wasn't an association that bode very well.

"Coffee?"

"Thank you."

You didn't even bother looking up from the window. The man gave you a paper cup and sat across from you.

"Frustrating, isn't it? The non-smoking."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

Your voice was drawling and you didn't care. He was dull, and silence suited him better anyway. You saw his reflected expression on the pane darken slightly, but he seemed to get the message.

For a minute, at least.

"I've never been to Barcelona! It's not the best time of the year to go, though. I mean, winter, y'know."

We're not exactly going there as tourists, you imbecile.

You sent him a pleasant smile.

"It really isn't, is it ?"

This was all so tiring. Thank God there was something behind those boring people. Something more than a man. You looked your own reflection in the eye.

* * *

><p><em>How can I catch up when I don't don't want to?<br>How can I catch up when I still want you?_

* * *

><p><em><strong>December 27, Gran Teatre del Liceu, Barcelona<strong>_

Standing in front of the theatre, you tried not to look too impatient. You had noticed the blond hair only enhanced the tension in your traits, and definitely did not soften your face. It didn't matter, you thought, as you checked your watch yet again – a Cartier gold cream dial that almost matched your hair colour and contrasted elegantly with your black tailor-made suit – but you still wanted to make a good impression. Finally, your 'date' arrived – not so beautiful but very high-class and graceful.

She wouldn't have been his type, you mused, and a figure holding a little boy's hand crossed your mind. You blot out the thought and the image instantly.

"I am terribly sorry to be late, Mr. Holmes."

Your eyes turned to slits and your gaze went cold. She smiled brightly.

"Shall we go in? I wouldn't want you to miss the beginning – don't you think the first act is just sublime?"

"So you've already seen it ?"

"Oh, yes, many times. I came to last week's performance as well. Rusalka is my favourite opera."

"Well, it would, wouldn't it. But I thought you just arrived from London?"

"Oh no, I've been here for a month or so. However I do have contacts in London."

You collected your tickets – reserved under the name Šárka– and went to your seats.

"So tell me, Ms. Šárka, how do you find Barcelona ?"

"Please call me Eliska. I'll just call you Kazimir[1], since you don't seem to like your name."

"It isn't my name. Yours is very interesting, though. Eliska Šárka."[2]

"I've always been fond of oxymorons."

She took out of her purse a fountain pen and a case full of (different) business cards, picked one at the bottom, and wrote an email address on the back.

"Here is the quickest way to reach me, if the need ever arose."

You took the card but didn't even take a look at the address. Your eyes were fixed on the fountain pen. A Parker Duofold, with an iridium nib.[3] Her mouth curved imperceptibly.

"I see you are even later than me."

Your glare was lost as the lights were dimmed. The room went quiet and the curtain was raised. The music broke the silence; the performance begun. Ms. Šárka took a paper out of her bag, and passed it on to you. Even in the dim-lit theatre, you could see it was a picture of your gravestone painted red. _FAKE. _6-1-10-5. 61, 105. Geographical coordinates. You stared.

"You want me to go to _Siberia?" _you hissed under your breath, as quietly as you could manage.

She just smiled, and brought a finger to her lips. They parted and a mere whisper escaped them.

"Shh. Here's the song I like most. I am sure you will love it too, _Kazimir.__"_

You furrowed your brow but kept quiet and directed your attention to the stage. You did not understand Czech, but this song was so famous you were familiar with it already, and your brain flashed the words across your field of vision even though you really didn't ask for it. But words could still be ignored, or destroyed with irony: music was much more insidious. Much stronger against indifference and cynicism, too.

"Měsíčku na nebi hlubokém,

světlo tvé daleko vidí,

po světě bloudíš širokém,

díváš se v příbytky lidí.

Měsíčku, postůj chvíli,

řekni mi, kde je můj milý?

Řekni mu, stříbrný měsíčku,

mé že jej objímá rámě,

aby si alespoň chviličku,

vzpomenul ve snění na mě.

Zasvěť mu do daleka,

řekni mu, kdo tu naň čeká!

O mně-li duše lidská sní,

ať se tou vzpomínkou vzbudí!

Měsíčku, nezasni!" [4]

In your hand the picture was reduced to a crumpled ball.

* * *

><p><em>You have had your fill your fill of me.<br>You have had your fill your fill of me._

* * *

><p>If seven hours from Toulouse to Barcelona had seemed a long, boring trip, your ride on the Trans-Siberian Railway would be the death of you, you thought. You had walked up and down the compartments a dozen times, because after a while you got tired of staring out of the window in emptiness. At least smoking in between cars was permitted. Even if it was freezing, it made the whole journey more bearable.<p>

As you finished your umpteenth cigarette, you went back to the warmer areas and remembered you were supposed to eat. Your phone vibrated as you headed for the dining car.

_**Oven exploded. Mission complete.**_

As if you didn't already know that. Did the man think you were stupid ? You _are_ being stupid if you're taking him seriously. You need him as a right-hand man, but he was Moriarty's. A little smile graced your lips, but disappeared as soon as you noticed it. Sebastian Moran was a necessary tool and a threat. But this very ambiguity was proof you weren't Moriarty. Now you really are being stupid, your brain chided. You _are_ 'Moriarty': and Moran must never doubt that.

But I don't like him, you retorted. All the better, your brain replied.

As you entered the dining car, you walked past a small man with a military stance. You averted your eyes. You had just ordered absent-mindedly when your gaze caught a red seal on your table. Your eyes widened. Picking the enveloppe that lay against your glass, you opened it.

_**Hello, Sexy. Here's a little story to distract you – and spare some of your Sobranies :) Virginia N°40 I presume ?**_

Black Russian, you corrected mentally, but you didn't even gloat over the fact he got it wrong. It wasn't relevant: and only relevant mattered now. You started reading.

.

**ONCE** on a time and twice on a time, and all times together as ever I heard tell of, there was a tiny lassie who would weep all day to have the stars in the sky to play with; she wouldn't have this, and she wouldn't have that, but it was always the stars she would have. So one fine day off she went to find them. And she walked and she walked and she walked, till by and by she came to a mill-dam.

'Goode' en to ye,' says she, 'I'm seeking the stars in the sky to play with. Have you seen any?'

'Oh, yes, my bonnie lassie,' said the mill-dam. 'They shine in my own face o' nights till I can't sleep for them. Jump in and perhaps you'll find one.'

So she jumped in, and swam about and swam about and swam about, but ne'er a one could she see. So she went on till she came to a brooklet.

'Goode'en to ye, Brooklet, Brooklet,' says she; 'I'm seeking the stars in the sky to play with. Have you seen any?'

'Yes, indeed, my bonny lassie,' said the Brooklet. 'They glint on my banks at night. Paddle about, and maybe you'll find one.'

So she paddled and she paddled and she paddled, but ne'er a one did she find. So on she went till she came to the Good Folk.

'Goode'en to ye, Good Folk,' says she; 'I'm looking for the stars in the sky to play with. Have ye seen e'er a one?'

'Why, yes, my bonnie lassie,' said the Good Folk. 'They shine on the grass here o' night. Dance with us, and maybe you'll find one.'

And she danced and she danced and she danced, but ne'er a one did she see. So down she sate; I suppose she wept.

'Oh dearie me, oh dearie me,' says she, 'I've swam and I've paddled and I've danced, and if ye'll not help me I shall never find the stars in the sky to play with.'

But the Good Folk whispered together, and one of them came up to her and took her by the hand and said, 'If you won't go home to your mother, go forward, go forward; mind you take the right road. Ask Four Feet to carry you to No Feet at all, and tell No Feet at all to carry you to the stairs without steps, and if you can climb that-'

'Oh, shall I be among the stars in the sky then?' cried the lassie.

'If you'll not be, then you'll be elsewhere,' said the Good Folk, and set to dancing again.

So on she went again with a light heart, and by and by she came to a saddled horse, tied to a tree.

'Goode'en to ye, Beast,' said she; 'I'm seeking the stars in the sky to play with. Will you give me a lift, for all my bones are an-aching.'

'Nay,' said the horse, 'I know naught of the stars in the sky, and I'm here to do the bidding of the Good Folk, and not my own will.'

'Well,' said she, 'it's from the Good Folk I come, and they bade me tell Four Feet to carry me to No Feet at all.'

'That's another story,' said he; 'jump up and ride with me.'

So they rode and they rode and they rode, till they got out of the forest and found themselves at the edge of the sea. And on the water in front of them was a wide glistening path running straight out towards a beautiful thing that rose out of the water and went up into the sky, and was all the colours in the world, blue and red and green, and wonderful to look at.

'Now get you down,' said the horse; 'I've brought ye to the end of the land, and that's as much as Four Feet can do. I must away home to my own folk.'

'But,' said the lassie, 'where's No Feet at all, and where's the stair without steps?'

'I know not,' said the horse; 'it's none of my business neither. So goode'en to ye, my bonny lassie'; and off he went.

So the lassie stood still and looked at the water, till a strange kind of fish came swimming up to her feet.

'Goode'en to ye, big Fish,' says she; 'I'm looking for the stars in the sky, and for the stairs that climb up to them. Will ye show me the way?'

'Nay,' said the Fish, 'I can't unless you bring me word from the Good Folk.'

'Yes, indeed,' said she. 'They said Four Feet would bring me to No Feet at all, and No Feet at all would carry me to the stairs without steps.'

'Ah, well,' said the Fish; 'that's all right then. Get on my back and hold fast.'

And off he went - Kerplash! - into the water, along the silver path, towards the bright arch. And the nearer they came the brighter the sheen of it, till she had to shade her eyes from the light of it.

And as they came to the foot of it, she saw it was a broad bright road, sloping up and away into the sky, and at the far, far end of it she could see wee shining things dancing about.

'Now,' said the Fish, 'here you are, and yon's the stair; climb up, if you can, but hold on fast. I'll warrant you find the stair easier at home than by such a way; 'twas ne'er meant for lassies' feet to travel'; and off he splashed through the water.

So she clomb and she clomb and she clomb, but ne'er a step higher did she get: the light was before her and around her, and the water behind her, and the more she struggled the more she was forced down into the dark and the cold, and the more she clomb the deeper she fell.

But she clomb and she clomb, till she got dizzy in the light and shivered with the cold, and dazed with the fear; but still she clomb, till at last, quite amazed and silly-like, she let clean go, and sank down - down - down.

And bang she came on to the hard boards, and found herself sitting, weeping and wailing, by the bedside at home all alone.

.

_**But don't you worry, my dear, you're not home. Or are you? :D **_

Your eyes stopped on the word: home. _Home._ You searched insistently.

All it conjured up was _8. 14. 12. 5._

H.O.M.E._  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>December baby, you are mine. <em>

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_tbc_

* * *

><p><em>[1] Kazimir means 'famous destroyer (of peace)'<br>_

_[2] Eliska means 'truthful'. Šárka means 'trick'.  
><em>

_[3] See season 1 episode 3, 'The Great Game'  
><em>

_[4] _Silver moon upon the deep dark sky,/ Through the vast night pierce your rays./ __This sleeping world you wander by,/ __Smiling on men's homes and ways./ __Oh moon ere past you glide, tell me,/ __Tell me, oh where does my loved one bide?/ __Tell him, oh tell him, my silver moon,/ __Mine are the arms that shall hold him,/ __That between waking and sleeping he may/ __Think of the love that enfolds him,/ __Light his path far away, light his path,/ __Tell him, oh tell him who does for him stay!/ __Human soul, should it dream of me,/ __Let my memory wakened be./ __Moon, moon, oh do not wane, do not wane,/ __Moon, oh moon, do not wane.__


	16. Ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis

****A.N: All my thanks to Eli for the precious medical insights on TCAs, and to Wingatron for betaing this chapter.****

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** **"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_  
><em>

**_Ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis_: **"Where you are worth nothing, you will wish for nothing_"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XVI: Ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis<strong>

_song: End of the world, by Ingrid Michaelson _

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p>December 27, 5am.<p>

John doesn't know why he woke up so early in the morning, especially when he hasn't been having nightmares for days now. He lies in bed, and when he understands sleep won't come back because he's no longer tired, he gets up.

His routine hasn't changed much. He eats a little less but three times a day, and doesn't pay any face-to-face visits to his smiley friend anymore. He finds he doesn't miss him – perhaps because the grin seems to follow him everywhere he goes. He goes walking more often, and reads less newspapers, as he checks the news online more regularly now – at least that is free. His laptop doesn't remain closed all day as it used to, and even though he doesn't bother with most emails (not to mention his blog), he no longer avoids the internet altogether, and feels that it's a progress. In fact, he does answer some emails: he finally accepted Bill Murray's invitation for aperitifs at his house, to meet his wife. He isn't looking forward to it, not really. But Bill wants him to meet his wife, even if he is a total wreck and doesn't get along so much with people these days. John cannot ignore such a token of friendship, no matter how unwelcome.

Sitting down at the table, he unfolds the newspaper of the previous day – no declaration from the Met in that one, but still this bewildering 'Snow White' serial killer. Every day they seem to have a different lead, and John wonders when they'll add Little Riding Hood or Sleeping Beauty to their theories. This is getting so out of proportions that it's ridiculous – even the murderer seems quite ridiculous to John. Why not use a poisoned spinning wheel, while they're at it? Seriously, apples...

Soon the newspaper bores him and he gets up to shave. He never understood why people in grief didn't take care of their appearances: but maybe that's just the military man speaking in him. Regardless of the situation, John doesn't deem letting oneself go to be the appropriate attitude: one must keep one's chin up no matter what. That he always firmly believed, even before going to Afghanistan – and even when he came back and couldn't deal with how dull his civilian life was.

Looking his own reflection in the mirror as he shaves, he ponders the thought. If he hadn't met Sherlock at that time, if 'nothing' had kept happening to him, he probably would have ended up shooting himself. Thanks to the consulting detective, he probably will never put his handgun to such use – because now "handgun" is linked to cases, adventures, near-death situations with crazy cabbies and giant, vampire-like assassins.

After he's done having a wash, John decides to tidy his room. Newspapers are still lying around, even if he tried to set in order his few possessions some weeks ago. Tidying up isn't part of the routine, but sometimes he just feels like it and takes the opportunity to clean up the whole place perfectly. It doesn't take much time – not as much as cleaning 221B would have taken in any case - but it still delays his morning walk and when he finally goes out, it is already noon.

* * *

><p><em>When the sun runs out<br>And there's no one to save you  
>Will you go to our favorite place<br>And try to say goodbye?_

* * *

><p>Today he must stop by the chemist's to buy his Tofranil tablets. He goes once a month, and is now well-known among the pharmacists who fortunately are very friendly and do not bother with gossip and whatnot about Sherlock being a fake and himself an idiot or an accomplice. The fact that he comes for antidepressants probably accounts a lot for their friendliness.<p>

"Here we go, Mr. Watson!"

"Doctor, Emily, he's a doctor."

"Oh, that's right! I'm sorry."

"There is really no need to be," John answers with a smile.

The young woman apparently named Emily blushes slightly.

"Your prescription will soon expire, Dr. Watson. Be sure to bring a new one with you next month; but perhaps you will change treatment? It's already been seven months... Well, of course, as a doctor, you would know."

"I know, Mr. Caldwell."

"Of course, of course. Well, have a very nice day, and see you next month then."

"Thank you, nice day to you too."

He sends a last smile to Emily and makes a mental note to stop doing that and give hope to women when they don't stand a chance. He sighs. Such a pity. She was very pretty.

* * *

><p><em>At the end of, at the end of the world<br>Will you find me, will you find me?  
>At the end of, at the end of the world<br>Will you find me so that we can go  
>Together, together, together<br>_

* * *

><p>His next stop is the Wine and Spirits store: he knows Bill enjoys drinking wine, and so decided to bring some good bottle tonight. He isn't staying for dinner, but still doesn't wish to arrive empty-handed.<p>

"May I help you?"

"I'm looking for something to drink before dinner, I believe some white wine would be better..."

"Well, what about this Côte du Jura? Or perhaps..."

"Perfect. The Côte du Jura is perfect."

The woman seems surprised by his indifference, but he pays it no heed. His eyes stop on the red wines. Unlike Bill who always preferred rosé, a good Bordeaux was more to John's liking. Considering the different bottles, he picks a Saint-Emilion and a Brocard Bourgogne. It's not every day he indulges in such delicacies, but this is just the occasion. He wouldn't bother coming to this store just to buy himself a good bottle of wine. As he pays, he wonders absent-mindedly what Sherlock's favourite wine could have been.

* * *

><p><em>When the moon breaks up<br>And the tide goes out of control  
>Will you find me in the water<br>And swim me to the stars?_

* * *

><p>The weather is good enough to walk back home, and so John takes his time strolling down the streets of London towards his room. The appointment with Bill is only at 6 in the afternoon, he's still got a few hours. As he stops to buy the paper, a woman bumps into him.<p>

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!"

"No problem..."

"Lucy! I thought you were waiting by the car."

John turns towards the voice and his eyes widen in surprise.

"Clara."

"John! It's been so long."

"It has, really."

She seems a little uneasy, and he can't help but wonder what she believed about the whole Sherlock scandal.

"I'm sorry I haven't been calling or writing."

"No, don't be. It's fine. I'm fine."

She smiles at him with something like pity in her gaze, and he can barely stand it.

"So, how have you been?"

"Great, great! Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced you. Lucy, this is John, my ex brother-in-law. John, Lucy, my partner."

"Nice to meet you."

"My pleasure."

They all keep silent and a sense of unease settles in.

"Listen, John..." Clara begins.

"I'll be going then. It was nice to see you. I'm glad to know you're doing well." He eyed Lucy.

"Let's keep in touch!"

"Of course."

As he walks away briskly, he forgets all about the paper he intended to buy, and doesn't notice the front page displayed on the kiosk: _How many huntsmen to the Evil Queen?_

* * *

><p><em>At the end of, at the end of the world<br>Will you find me, will you find me?_

* * *

><p>Having met Clara reminds John of Harry and for the first time since they quarrelled and stopped talking, he feels something like shame. Not guilt, because he's beyond that now. But as a man and a soldier, he feels ashamed of his behaviour towards her: he still believes he only stated true facts, but it wasn't very kind of him nonetheless, and he was always the kind and responsible one.<p>

So he turns his laptop on, and decides to send an email. It's good today isn't Christmas, because they never spent Christmas together, nor wrote, since they were adults – they only spent a few days together sometimes afterwards. Rarely. Last time was special, and it was all because of Sherlock: John needed a break. He also believed at the time Harry really had stopped drinking, and had hated Sherlock for pointing out he was wrong – again. For being right, too.

He shrugs. It isn't like he'll get another chance at hating the mad detective. He starts typing.

_Hi Harry. I'm sorry I_

He frowns slightly, and deletes.

_Hi Harry. Sorry I haven't been giving much news. _

Frowns more, and deletes again.

_Hi Harry. How are you doing? _

Sighs exasperatedly and deletes.

_Hi Harry. Sorry I didn't write sooner. How have you been doing? _

Sitting back, he relaxes a bit.

_I've been thinking about what you told me, and enrolled in DWB. I'm leaving for Chad tomorrow._

He thinks a second about apologizing again, but decides against it: they never apologized much to each other, and one occurrence in the mail is enough already.

_Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news. I'm sorry I couldn't properly meet Chris_

Delete.

_Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news. I'll be fine, so you just have a good life and please keep up the no-drinking. _

Delete.

_Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news. I'll be fine, so you just focus on being fine, too. Be happy with Chris and don't screw it up because of alcohol. _

Delete.

_Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news. Thank you for trying to be there. Please drop the alcohol and be happy with Chris – you deserve it._

Delete.

_Don't expect me to write much: you know the saying, no news is good news. _

_Love, John. _

* * *

><p><em>At the end of, at the end of the world<em>  
><em>Will you find me so that we can go<em>  
><em>Together, together, together<em>

* * *

><p>"John! Great to see you again mate, come in, come in!"<p>

"Hello, John, I'm Sophia. It's a pleasure to meet you. I've been hearing about you for so long!"

"Nice to meet you too."

"Bill, take his coat while I prepare the appetizers."

"Oh, what did you bring here? Ah, a Côte du Jura! Did I say that right?"

"How would I know? I haven't become a French speaker since the last time we met, you know."

They enter the living-room and John takes in the warmth of their home. He doesn't even feel a twinge of sadness or envy, thinking this is something he'll never have.

"I know, but I thought your flatmate was, right? Ah, sorry..."

"Come on Bill, if you start apologizing now, you'll be on your knees before the end of the evening."

"He's right, Bill, won't you try to stop putting your foot in your mouth just for today?"

"She's just pissed because she can't drink and won't be able to taste the wine you brought," Bill whispers with mock-secrecy, leaning in with a grin.

John smiles back. "I think Sherlock did speak French, but it's not like he spoke much French to me. I only heard him a few times."

"I see. Wasn't one to share his knowledge, was he?"

"Bill!"

"Ha ha, not really. He usually expected you to know, period. If you didn't, you were just an idiot, and he wouldn't bother explaining – or he would, but just to show off."

"Right. Quite a character!"

"Oh yeah."

"Come on, boys, let's sit down. John, would you like a glass of vermouth?"

"Sure."

He observes her as she serves him. She is a tall and well-built woman with fair blond hair and a mouth too big for her face, but that isn't without its charms. Bill catches his eye.

"Sophia's pregnant."

"That's great," he says warmly. "Congratulations."

She blushes and her grin is dazzling.

"Thank you."

"So, girl or boy?"

"We don't know yet. Hopefully we'll have twins, so we won't fight."

John arches an eyebrow.

"Why's that?"

"Sophia wants a boy. I want a girl."

"Ha ha! Well, you can always have two even if they're not twins, you know."

Bill frowns comically.

"I know. But still. The first one, y'know? It's the first one..."

John chuckles. Their joy is infectious, and he is sincerely happy for them. Bill seems to think otherwise, though.

"So, no girlfriend recently?"

"Nope. Not interested."

"Right."

"Really, I'm not. I don't want a long-term relationship..."

Bill and Sophia exchange glances.

"You know, mate, at this point in your life, if you want to built a fam–"

"...because I'm leaving for Chad tomorrow."

They stare.

"What?"

"I've enrolled in Doctors Without Borders."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I'm really not," John laughs.

"Wow. I mean... Wow. It's not so you can just get killed there or something, right?"

"Bill..." mutters his wife.

"No, I mean it, mate."

"They're suffering from malnutrition and deadly epidemics, Bill, it's not a war."

"Right, but..."

"I'm fine, really. This was Harry's idea originally. She thought finding me a job was a priority because I'd go bonkers if I remained idle all day, and maybe she's right. I think it'll be good."

"That's very different from Afghanistan, you know that."

"Really? I had no idea."

Bill guffaws and shakes his head.

"I think you're already bonkers, mate, really... completely bonkers."

"Yeah. We invaded Afghanistan together, remember?"

They laugh. This time, John feels the twinge.

* * *

><p><em>Together, together, together<br>__When the sun breaks up  
><em>_And there's no one to save you_

* * *

><p>Of course John ends up staying for a well-lubricated dinner and comes home later than expected. He isn't drunk though, not even tipsy: he could hold his drink perfectly fine, thank you.<p>

His thoughts are clear as he showers, takes a sleeping pill, and gets dressed. He doesn't put his pyjamas on, just jeans and one of his jumpers. One he believes Sherlock liked – or rather, the only one he didn't overtly criticize. As he walks past the dresser, he grabs a notepad and a pen. His handgun is put away in one of the drawers, and John hasn't opened it in weeks. He never intends to open it again.

Sitting at the table on top of which he left his two wine bottles and a glass before going out, he starts scribbling something down on the notepad, and stops only to serve himself a glass of wine – he doesn't pay attention which he opens, but knows once his lips touch the liquid – the Bordeaux. He should have opened the Bourgogne first. Oh well.

He scribbles, then rips the page and crumples it, before scribbling again. It seems like he can't get his words straight today.

_Mycroft. I'd really hoped I'd be the one to bury you. Too bad. _

Rips and crumples.

_Mycroft. You're obnoxious, but you're supposedly clever, too. So I hope you cleverly hush this up, and if you'd be so kind as to get rid of the body so no one finds it..._

Rips and crumples.

_Mycroft. I'm not forgiving you. But if you clean this up and erase all traces, I won't haunt you. Deal?_

He groans in frustration, rips and crumples.

_Mycroft. I took care of your bloody brother for 18 months, and you're the only reason he still managed to off himself in the end. Well, maybe not the only reason, but you see what I mean. So you __owe me this at least. _

Rips, crumples and throws.

_Mycroft. _

He stops and stares at the piece of paper. Rips it slowly, then rips another page. He puts it in the middle of the table, and leaves it blank. There. Picking all the crumpled balls, he goes to the kitchen, burns them with the matches he uses for the gas, and throws away the ashes.

As he sits back down at the table, he fills himself another glass of wine and drinks it unhurriedly, appreciating it to its fullest. Sherlock would have certainly preferred red wine, too – something fancy, like a Château Margaux.

Putting down the glass of wine, he goes into the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. Inside, several boxes of Tofranil are lined up, nice and tidy. He considers them a second before grabbing three boxes and going back to the living room. Refilling his glass, he wonders idly whether he'll pass out before he gets to open the other bottle – he really wanted to try that Bourgogne.

* * *

><p><em>At the end of, at the end of the world<br>Will you find me, will you find me?  
>At the end of, at the end of the world<br>__Will you find me?_

* * *

><p>He passes out while opening the third box of pills, and manages a smile: he got to taste the Bourgogne after all.<p>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	17. Aurea mediocritas

**A/N: **Just so those who do not check my profile know (I think it's only fair, because if you were holding a book, you'd know): this story will be 52 chapters long, and not only filled with angst on John's part – I'm not trying to kill you people, I care for my readers ;)

All my thanks to my reviewers, you really keep me going!

****Nutrisco et extinguo:**** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"_  
><em>

_**Aurea mediocritas**_****: ****_"__the golden mean"_ _; the desirable middle between two extremes, one of excess and the other of deficiency._

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XVII: <strong>_**Aurea mediocritas **_

_song: Men of Snow, by Ingrid Michaelson _

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p>Clapham Common is so big a park you can easily spend an entire day strolling through it. It is only morning, and John doesn't intend to walk all day: but he still enjoys the quietness and the cold winter air. He always believed a walk had to be brisk and invigorating. One month after he woke up in hospital and started living with his sister, he has recovered enough to resume his walking habit. Harry moved in with Chris in early September, and is now all settled in a rather large flat with two bedrooms near Clapham South Station. Chris grew up there with her parents, who moved to their country house after retirement. As he walks past the disused bomb shelters and the tennis courts towards the West side, John thinks his parents would have been retired by now, too. It's a disturbing thought.<p>

He usually avoids Clapham High Street and the corner of the park closest to Clapham Common tube, because he feels it's too crowded. Crowded, but with the wrong people. Crowded, yet lacking.

A jogger stops dead in his tracks as he runs past him.

"Oh my God, are you Dr. John Watson, by any chance?"

John stops as well, and stares.

"Nope. Sorry. Wrong person."

He starts to walk away.

"No, wait! I'm sure it's you!"

"Hence the question."

It takes the jogger a second to catch up, and then he breaks out laughing.

"Haha, now I know it's you!"

"... because I'm funny?"

"Yeah!"

John pinches the bridge of his nose. Why did he go out today, again? Oh yeah. No brooding. Right.

"I don't know you."

"I'm Joshua, but you can call me Josh!"

"Right. Well, Josh... Have a nice day?"

"Wait, man, I'm a very active member of the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement!"

Oh great.

"That's... good."

"And I was wondering, won't you come to one of our meetings? I mean the others would be just thrilled y'know and_–_"

"Sorry, maybe some other time."

John tries to make an escape.

"I see... Well, can I give you my number? And you can call me when you're ready, or something."

There is no way he's exchanging numbers with a stranger on the street. With a male stranger, to boot. But Joshua has already scribbled his number down on a piece of paper he conjured up from God knows where, and is handing it to him. For some unknown reason, John feels bad about turning him down, and takes it.

"I'm not gay," he feels compelled to inform him.

Josh bursts out laughing.

"Yeah, and I'm very happy with my boyfriend, thank you very much. Look, I can tell I'm bothering you_–_"

"No." Where did he get that idea?

"But I'm just saying, the police got evidence Sherlock wasn't a fake, y'know, and that Rich Brook guy was a liar. We're just trying to spread the word_–_"

"And get people interested, I get it. It's all good, but I don't really see what I can do for you."

The man looks him in the eye for a moment. "You should start writing your blog again, John – I can call you John, right? I mean, tell people the real story."

"I don't know the real story."

"What? But you_–_"

"He just called me and jumped off a rooftop."

Josh blinks, staring, then shifts on his feet uneasily.

"Right... Sorry for your loss... or something..."

John smiles sincerely, and Josh seems surprised.

"Or something," John echoes.

Though a little puzzled, Josh smiles back timidly.

"Nice day to you, Josh."

"Right... Nice day to you too."

John walks away and almost laughs – the expression on the jogger's face is priceless. Then he remembers he attempted suicide barely a month ago, and he forgets to laugh.

* * *

><p><em>Once I made a man all out of snow<br>He had the darkest eyes and a button nose  
>I told him all my sadness and my fear<br>And he just listened with a snowy ear_

* * *

><p>When he woke up in a hospital bed on December 30, John had no idea he was in a hospital bed, or that the date was December 30. He remembered vaguely having his stomach pumped out, but his brain just couldn't connect the dots and make sense out of it.<p>

A woman with a waxen complexion was sitting at his side. She looked like Harriet, but much older, dark bags under her red eyes. Very slowly, memories of his sister came back.

What was she doing here? He could recall their relationship was far from good, and didn't know what she was doing at his bedside. Then he understood: hospital. Something had happened to him, and she was called here.

She caught him moving and their eyes locked, but she didn't say a word. Her pupils were burning, and soon blurry with threatening tears.

And then it all came back to him like a punch in the face. The one time he saw Harry cry, it was because they'd been quarelling. About something. Something important. Not, not something. Someone. Someone's death...

_Sherlock_.

His _dead_ best friend. The man he attempted suicide for. The man whose existence John had completely forgotten for a moment; even more than a moment, if he was honest with himself. There had been nothing at first, no clear thoughts, no memories; he had only felt dizzy and comatose. Then he had seen Harry, and had formed proper thoughts.

But none about _Sherlock. _It was all so absurd and so cruelly ironic.

Trying to ignore his sister who seemed to be frozen on the spot, John looked away and his eyes landed on the small table by his bedside. There was an alarm clock – no doubt Harry's, in case she fell asleep while waiting for him to wake up – and a note. John blanched.

It was the note he'd left for Mycroft on his own table before... _Mycroft._ He'd called Harry. _Bastard._ John wanted to ignore the note too, but his brain was quicker and had already made out the words scribbled in a tight handwriting:

_How was Sherlock?_

Those few words chilled John like a bucket of cold water. Damn you, he thought. Damn you, Mycroft.

He hated him for calling Harry, hated him for knowing, for guessing right and hitting a nerve...

He'd never see Sherlock again, even if he died now. It didn't work that way. His attempt hadn't brought him closer to Sherlock at all: it had nearly ripped them farther apart, irreversibly.

John turned his head on the pillow. Harry averted her gaze and pretended sobs weren't racking her big brother's body.

* * *

><p><em>But when I came around the next day<br>My friend had gone and melted all away  
>I saw his eyes lying on the ground<br>I made a sound that was something like crying_

* * *

><p>Thinking by the pond now, skimming stones on the water surface, John feels that he was never closer yet farther apart from Harry than at this moment. She didn't say a word, and he was grateful for it. There was nothing to be said.<p>

He closes his eyes and enjoys the feel of the cold winter breeze on his face. He must admit he's at a complete loss: he doesn't know what he was expecting from killing himself, but certainly not this. Damn Mycroft and his bloody surveillance cameras.

If not for his intervention, you would have lost Sherlock irretrievably by now, whispers a little voice in the back of his head. John glares at it mentally.

Right, because that wasn't already the case.

You wiped him out, John... wiped him out...

I didn't! I–

Moved out of Baker Street. Stopped visiting his grave. Didn't try to clear his name. Cut all ties with anyone that had known him. Stopped drinking milk, stopped watching the telly...

His phone vibrating in his pocket rouses him from his inner quarrel. John sighs. Harry bought him a new mobile – she seemed to understand he just couldn't use the one he lent Sherlock the first time they met. He ignores the twinge and reads the message.

**We've run out of coffee! Can you get some on the way home? Love, Chris.**

He blinks. Right. He used to live with Sherlock. Now he's living with 'Chris' and 'Harry'. Not gay, was it?

* * *

><p><em>Oh, one day you will go away from this<br>Oh, one day you will know we're men of snow  
>We melt <em>

_One day_

* * *

><p>"No, mum, I'm fine, really. What do you mean dad thinks I'm throwing my life away? Look, I am <em>not<em> living with a drunk and a guy with suicidal tendencies, I am living with _Harry _and _John_! They have names!"

Chris shut the door of the fridge so violently the kitchen wall shook. She fell back on a chair and rested her head against her hand.

"I'm sorry, mum, I know you're trying to talk to him... It's just... it's not easy, you know. I would have liked to have my parents' full support. I love Harry, mum. And John is a great guy."

She listened quietly to her mother, nodding absent-mindedly, winding a red lock around her finger. She had never asked a woman to move in with her before Harry – she either lived at her girlfriend's place, or they had separate flats. She knew that to her parents, making this flat hers and Harry's home meant she was serious about her, and they'd been happy for her. It had been hard at first, especially with her father, who, though not homophobic, had a hard time dealing with his daughter being a lesbian.

Chris hadn't told them about Harry's drinking problem, but they had come for dinner the night she had a fight with John, and she was drunk. It had been such a mess. And her suicidal brother was sleeping in the room that used to be her parents', and that they'd turned into a guest room when they'd moved out. Christiane was very disappointed in her father's attitude, but she understood his point of view.

She heard the entrance door and stood up.

"Right, mum. Well, I'll call you back then. Say hello to dad for me."

She hung up as John entered the kitchen with the groceries. His military stance always surprised her, and she couldn't believe this man had attempted suicide barely a month ago. He looked unbreakable.

"Hello, Ironman. How was the walk?"

"Fine. I met a fan."

She arched an eyebrow as he got the coffee out of the shopping bag.

"You've got fans? I shouldn't be surprised, but_–_"

"Not mine, really. Sherlock's."

"Oh."

John wasn't trying to provoke her, or to always remind them of his loss. He talked of Sherlock as if he didn't mind anymore. It always made Chris feel a little uneasy.

"What did he want?"

"Nothing, really. Gave me his number, invited me to a meeting."

She stared. John smirked.

"He's a member of the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement."

"Oh, I see! Couldn't you have said that sooner? I thought he was hitting on you."

"Nope. Told me he was very happy with his boyfriend."

Chris bit her lips. There it was again. John's tone should have been bitter, or at least a little ironic or hurt. But it wasn't. She was very well aware of how humiliating this whole situation must have felt to him: he had to live with his younger sister, because the doctors didn't trust his mental health. He needed a _guardian_ – and that, to a man like John, must have been a blow. He didn't seem to need a guardian at all. Everything in John Watson screamed "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul". And that was why such a man attempting suicide was so scary: he was determined, and had put some thoughts into it.

Maybe he was just trying to prove to them that he was perfectly responsible and could take care of himself – but she didn't believe this was a mere façade. He truly was taking his responsibilities towards Harry, Chris felt, and he realized she needed him to be alive. From what she gathered, he had sent her an email saying all was fine and he was leaving for Chad with DWB, but the very next day she'd got a call from the hospital telling her her brother was in a coma after he had swallowed two boxes of sleeping pills and almost two bottles of wine.

Chris would never forget the look on Harry's face. She never wanted to see it again.

* * *

><p><em>And winters come and my love, the winters go<br>And time stacks up in piles like winter snow  
>And everything you love and hold so dear<br>Won't really matter when we disappear_

* * *

><p>Harry sighed as she stretched on her chair in her office. Technically, it wasn't exactly <em>her<em> office, but she was still so proud she got this job as an accountant for a bookshop – finally got to use her management and accounting degree that had gone to waste because of... well, drinking. She was really trying to give it up completely, but it was hard, what with her brother being a selfish bastard.

She still couldn't believe he'd had the guts to lie to her so blatantly the very day he intended to end his life. Even though she knew it was some pathetic attempt to protect her, the betrayal had hurt her deeply. She tried to avoid the subject, and they didn't even have a serious conversation since then, because she knew, she _knew _she would just shove it all into his face, that he very nearly imposed upon her the very same thing that bloody Sherlock Holmes had made him go through.

She was starting to hate the Holmes altogether. She'd met Mycroft Holmes at the hospital and learned it was he who had contacted her, but only twelve hours after he'd retrieved John's unconscious body in his room. She found him haughty and, all in all, obnoxious. He went as far as to give her _advice_ as to what to do with her _own brother_! "I contacted only you, Ms. Watson, and I would recommend you do not mention this... incident to any acquaintance of his. They either do not know where he is, or believe he is currently working in Chad for Doctors Without Borders, and that is just as well. Just give him time. And let him contact them when he feels like it – _if_ he feels like it." He had made her blood boil, acting as if he knew and understood John better than she did, just because he was so _smart_. Jerk.

She sighed. Harry hated lunch breaks, because she always thought of her brother. How did it get to this? How did _they_ get to this? Their relationship was never good. A six year difference isn't negligible when you're a kid, and especially once you've become a teenager. When Harry was six, John was already in secondary, and by the time she was thirteen, he'd already left home. When their parents had died, they'd both been adults, and he didn't have to take care of her. He did though. He tried. Just like she'd tried after Sherlock's death. But both of them were broken back then, and didn't know each other well enough to be each other's support. While John was playing rugby at the Blackheath rugby team, Harry was writing poetry and painting and thought she could be an artist. When he entered the British Army, she was studying in uni management and accounting. They never had much to talk about, but she still cared, and she knew he did, too. She'd been so happy when he had come to spend a few days with her over Christmas the year he was still living with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes. The madman who had given John the spark of life back after the war, only to take it away from him eighteen months later. The man John kept living with even though it ruined his reputation and everyone thought he was gay, when he wasn't – Harry would know. No man could be straighter than her brother, yet he had chosen to share a flat with some socially challenged, arrogant, self-centred _male_ genius. Harry was well-informed about both homosexuality and dependence: her brother wasn't gay, he was addicted.

Not a safe thing, addiction. Especially when it's a person you're addicted to. People are worse than drugs or alcohol. People can die.

* * *

><p><em>Oh, one day you will go away from this<br>Oh, one day you will know we're men of snow  
>We melt<br>One day_

* * *

><p>"So, John, how was your week?"<p>

"Good, very good."

Ella sent him a look.

"What did you do?"

"I took walks around Clapham Common, went grocery shopping, and read the paper."

Leaning towards him, she locked their gazes.

"John, you tell me that every time we meet."

"Because that's what I do every week."

"Why did you come back here, John?"

"Because I attempted suicide and doctors said I needed a therapist. Since I already know you're harmless, I thought I'd just come here – makes my sister feel better, too."

"I won't be able to help you if you're so guarded, John. You seem very angry to me."

"That's a brilliant deduction, Ella."

Sarcasm, now. He was being too defensive for his own good. Couldn't he see she was trying to help him? She took a deep breath and sighed. John Watson really was a problematic patient. He was in so much denial, and too proud to unseal his own eyes.

"Would you like to talk about deductions?"

"Sure. What would you like to know?"

"Everything."

"Well, I'm sure there must be something like _Deduction for Dummies_ on the market."

"John. I know this is painful for you, but you really should talk about it."

"It? 'It', Ella? I don't know what 'it' is. If it's Sherlock Holmes you're talking about, he has a name, and he's a person. If 'it' is his death, well you can just say his death, or his suicide, or if you're referring to the event itself 'the day he jumped off a rooftop' or something like that. You don't need to be very imaginative, so you should be able to handle it."

"You're still thinking about him. It still hurts."

"Oh? No, not at all. I don't think about him at all, and it doesn't hurt. That's why I tried to off myself a month ago."

"We could make more progress if you did not always use sarcasm as a defense mechanism, John," Ella said quietly, but firmly.

Their little staring contest didn't last long. John smiled and got up.

"I doubt it. But I'll still keep coming because it's your job after all and I kind of like you. Somehow, you remind me of Sherlock – you know, as a complete opposite. See you next week, Ella."

Ella Thompson never got mad at her patients. Sometimes, she just considered some of them a lost cause. John Watson definitely was one.

* * *

><p><em>Oh, one day you will go away from this<br>Oh, one day you will know we're men of snow  
>We melt, you know, we're men of snow<br>_

* * *

><p>Walking briskly through the park, John forgets all about Ella and resumes struggling with the fact that he's lost Sherlock all over again. Mycroft, that bastard. If he had video cameras, he must have known what he was up to, but he let him do it, so he would be taught by experience how pointless it truly was. Oh, he was Sherlock's brother all right.<p>

Sherlock. Behind his name only a void remains. John wonders how he can live with this. What he can do to find him again.

Since he finished his session earlier than expected, with Ella being more obtuse than usual, he decides to settle on a bench and read the paper he bought this morning. At least he'll be able to put his mind to something else – this Snow White case, for instance. They still haven't caught him – or them. The number of murders seems to decrease a bit, but they're not stopping altogether either, and nobody wants to eat apples anymore. When John came back with some from the supermarket, Harry had a fit and told him he didn't need to include them in his suicidal prospects. He let her rant and almost laughed when she was efficiently shut up by Chris crunching into an apple merrily. Almost.

Pondering this case, John is soon frustrated to find that nothing comes up. He is no Sherlock. A little annoyed, he folds the page and tries to read something else, but his mind has shifted to the consulting detective now, and he can't stop himself wondering: what truly happened that day at Bart's? Until now, he didn't care. Sherlock was dead, and there was nothing else to be said – no solace to be found. His brain couldn't even manage examining his friend's reasons for committing suicide. For lying to him. It was all too raw. It still is.

John never wanted to know, because it wouldn't bring Sherlock back: it didn't matter why he jumped from Bart's rooftop that day, what mattered was that he _did_. But now, as he can feel Sherlock slipping away from his reach, it appears to be the only thing he can hold on to: something real, something that truly happened. It isn't about clearing his name or "spreading the word", as Joshua said. It's just about understanding – not the pain, not the grief, because there's no logic in that. But Sherlock was a logical man: understanding his logic means understanding _him_, coming closer to him somehow. And for now, this is all John truly cares about.

* * *

><p><em>We melt <em>

_One day _

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_tbc_


	18. Sub Rosa

**A/N:** All my thanks to Wingatron for betaing this chapter.

******Nutrisco et extinguo:****** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"_  
><em>

**_Sub rosa_: **_"under the rose"_ ; denotes secrecy or confidentiality

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XVIII: <strong>_Sub rosa_

_song: Far away, by Ingrid Michaelson _

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I will live my life as a lobsterman's wife on an island in the blue bay.<br>He will take care of me, he will smell like the sea,  
>And close to my heart he'll always stay.<em>

* * *

><p>"Hi, Andrew!"<p>

"Oh hello, Molly. How are you doing today?"

"Good, I'm good. I was wondering... would you like to go out for a drink after work?"

Molly had been traumatized with coffee – more precisely, with asking people out to have coffee. Now, she always specified 'go out for a drink', so nobody would be dense enough (or obnoxious enough) to thank her and say what kind of drink they'd like her to bring them. She was about to be traumatized with that formulation too, though.

"Ah, I'm sorry. Actually I have something on tonight..."

"Well, maybe some other time?"

"I'm afraid I'll have something every night from now on... I'm dating someone."

He had the decency to look embarrassed. Molly's cheeks burned up nonetheless.

"Oh, I see. Well... See you around then."

She didn't wait to listen to the idiot blabbering excuses. He was _dating_ someone? Really? Hadn't he been hitting on her for at least a month? Molly was furious as she entered the lab, and almost slammed the door in her irritation. She felt stupid. Again. Would she never have any luck with men at all? What had she done to deserve such bad encounters that never led to anything? She sighed.

"Hello, Molly. Bad day, was it?"

She turned and smiled tiredly at Mike Stamford. He was a good guy. Already taken, though, and definitely not her type. _Not that I really have a type_, she thought broodingly. _Or what about psychopathic jerks? _

"Bad day, yes. I haven't been seeing you around much."

"Well, I've been quite busy lately, and not much business up here in the labs..."

… since John Watson and Sherlock Holmes didn't come anymore, was the implied reason. They both knew it, but didn't mention anything. However, they didn't have much to talk about, apart from their common friends.

"Any news from John?" Molly finally asked with a little tense smile.

Mike shook his head.

"None. His sister told me he went to Chad with DWB a few weeks ago."

Molly blinked.

"Chad? You're joking."

"I'm quite serious. He was always the traveller, I guess. Now that... well, that he hasn't much to occupy himself in London, it makes sense he would leave again."

"Yes, I suppose so... It just seems quite sudden. I mean, I wasn't expecting it."

She smiled perfunctorily.

* * *

><p><em>I will bear three girls all with strawberry curls, little Ella and Nelly and Faye.<br>While I'm combing their hair, I will catch his warm stare  
>On our island in the blue bay.<em>

* * *

><p>"You're kidding me. What a jerk! Don't shed a tear over him, Molly!"<p>

"I wasn't going to cry over that," she protested.

She was glad Meena had answered her call and listened to her rant. Now they were having a drink in a bar known to people who were still single and looking for a relationship. Meena wasn't actually single anymore, but she was the one who suggested the place.

"You need to broaden your horizon a bit, girl! I mean all those doctors and teachers and _dead people_."

She was referring to the bodies at the mortuary of course, but Molly felt uneasy. Meena had known about her crush on Sherlock, and to the world, Sherlock was dead. Jim was dead. She'd seen the body. But somehow she couldn't reconcile that face with the one of the nice guy from IT. It was probably better that way. Still, it had been strange to say goodbye to a man she never truly knew.

She'd had to say goodbye to Sherlock, too. But Sherlock wasn't dead. She would know.

Except she wouldn't, would she? Not really. How could she be sure he was still alive? And what about John? This whole DWB sounded so suspicious to her, _ominous_ even. Anything could have happened to either of them. Molly never stopped worrying, but today her sense of dread had drastically increased until it became overwhelming. She regretted that she hadn't followed Sherlock. She regretted that she'd stopped stalking John.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine! I'm fine."

Meena smiled knowingly.

"Lonely, aren't you?"

_You have no idea._

"Oh, I know people who are much lonelier than I am."

Meena sighed with exasperation.

"That's no good reason to remain so idle! We should go out more often."

"Sure," Molly answered sheepishly, smiling.

Her day had been bad, but now that she had vented her frustration she felt empty. She wanted to know how John was doing. How _Sherlock_ was doing. More than that, she needed to know if they were still _alive_.

"Hey. Hey! Are you with me?"

"Yes! Sorry. Bit tired, I guess."

"This isn't a time to be tired! Haven't you noticed? A guy has been ogling you for half an hour now."

"Really?" Molly replied, looking around her.

"Shh! Don't turn!"

Too late, though. Molly had caught the eye of a brown-haired stranger, good-looking but surprisingly inconspicuous. His jacket was of a nondescript colour. All in all, he was rather ordinary – but there was a spark Molly found quite puzzling. She turned back to Meena.

"Are you insane? Never _turn_ to stare back! He has to offer you a drink first. Or if you want to encourage him, you have to do it more naturally. Pretend you go to the restroom or something."

"Oh yeah, that's sexy."

Meena rolled her eyes.

"To fix your hair or your make-up, silly."

Molly chuckled lightly. She felt very out of place suddenly. What was she doing here? Laughing with a friend and trying to _flirt_ when two of the people she cared most about had vanished from the surface of the earth? She bit her lip. What could she do about it anyway? There wasn't anyone she knew who could provide information on the two men's current situations.

Or was there? Her eyes widened slightly as realization hit her.

"Molly? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I've got to go."

"What? It's so early! Where are you going?"

"To fix my hair!" she shouted back, already running out from the bar.

Neither she nor Meena noticed the inconspicuous man following her out.

* * *

><p><em>Far away far away, I want to go far away.<br>To a new life on a new shore line.  
>Where the water is blue and the people are new.<br>To another island, in another life._

* * *

><p>"Meoooow!"<p>

"Hey, Toby," Molly greeted wearily as she entered her flat.

She was exhausted. It hadn't only been a bad day, but a long one too. The flat had felt so empty after Sherlock had left – and that was more than eight months ago. It certainly didn't feel like he was here just yesterday. More like centuries ago. Toby mewled and roused her from her thoughts.

"Hungry, are you?"

She smiled down at him and went to the kitchen. Newspapers were sprawled on the table, most of them concerning the Snow White Mystery Serial Killer. She had no clue what was going on there, only that it was very likely Sherlock was involved. Really, _poisoned apples? _

The murder rate kept decreasing, though. There had been only two victims this month. Well, "_only". _She sighed. Dreadful business indeed. How could Sherlock be related to this?

_Because he's gone to infiltrate a worldwide criminal network to dissolve it from the inside? _said the part of her brain still capable of coherent thinking.

Right. He hadn't told her anything, but she had gathered as much. Who else could be powerful enough to force him to commit _suicide_? And she completely believed what John had written about Moriarty on his blog. She knew Rich Brook had been a fake, and she had developed a deep hatred and scorn towards the media – that is, until the situation had been reversed. Sherlock Holmes was now widely considered a misunderstood genius. No one knew why he had committed suicide in the end, but most theories involved his superior intellect and weariness of the world. One reporter – a certain Langdale Pike – had even gone as far as to wax elegiac about Sherlock being misjudged and condemned by a society he always tried to bond with through his job as a detective (_consulting_ detective, thought Molly). Pike had explained how much someone suffering from the Asperger's syndrome would be hurt by the lack of recognition and the betrayal of his fellow citizens. He couldn't explain why Rich Brook had killed himself, though, since he was a criminal mastermind. If this theory was true, he certainly had a wide enough network to leave London incognito. Pike's interpretation was that Moriarty was a lonely genius too, and had been ready to give his life to win a game and bring Sherlock Holmes down with him.

Well, maybe that part was true, Molly mused. She knew the one about Sherlock killing himself because he had felt "_betrayed and abandoned by his fellow citizens" _was bullshit, though. If anything, he was the one who had been forced to abandon people – three in particular. One especially. She shivered. John wouldn't have been stupid enough to kill himself for those exact reasons, would he?

Sighing, she left the kitchen and went to the shower room, where she wet her hair and put product on it conscientiously. She hadn't lied to Meena, she really did want to fix her hair. There was someone she had to meet.

* * *

><p><em>There's a boy next to me and he never will be anything but a boy at the bar.<br>And I think he's the tops, he's where everything stops.  
>How I love to love him from afar.<em>

* * *

><p>The Diogenes Club wasn't very welcoming to strangers, not to say positively <em>hostile.<em> Before leaving, Sherlock had told Molly that should the need ever arise, she was to go to Pall Mall, where his brother lodged. "He walks around the corner into Whitehall every morning and back every evening. From year's end to year's end he takes no other exercise, and is seen nowhere else, except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms," Sherlock had groaned contemptuously as he was sprawled on her couch playing with Toby. [1]

The club had very strict rules, and Molly, as a woman, wasn't even supposed to go in. Sherlock, however, had given her specific instructions so her attempt wouldn't be fruitless.

The moment she entered the hall of the club, a short, plump man jumped on her and showed her to the guests' room. He closed the doors precipitately, sweating.

"I'm sorry Ms., but this is a private club for gentlemen only and..."

Molly sent him her most dazzling smile and he fell quiet. Sherlock had been right all along. Blond hair _did _help. She took a name card out of her bag and handed it to the man. He readjusted his glasses on his nose and frowned.

"I regret, Miss, but our members' privacy is utmost to us and..."

"Of course, but would you please just show this card to Mr. Holmes? He specifically gave it to me in case I ever needed to meet him here without prior notice. You see, he even wrote a note on the back."

The chubby man fidgeted a bit, obviously wavering, his eyes fixed on the back of the card. The note read:

_**Diogenes Club – give this to Wiggins and he'll lead you to me**_.

At last, Wiggins seem to make up his mind.

"Fine, Miss... ?"

"Mrs. Harvest."

He nodded and left the room, making sure to close the doors behind him.

Molly chuckled. This no talking rule was so absurd it was difficult to keep serious. A club for the most unsociable and unclubable men in town! Even the guests' room was called the Strangers' Room. Sherlock had hinted that this was probably just a clever front from the British secret service, but Molly didn't know if he'd been serious. This place surely did seem like something a Holmes would be the co-founder of though – especially if all Holmes were like Sherlock. She had only met Mycroft Holmes once, but she thought he was quite terrifying indeed – and much colder than Sherlock, too.

Speaking of the devil...

"Hello, Mrs. Harvest. Would you follow me to a more quiet place?"

Molly smiled and complied. Apparently, blond hair wasn't very effective on Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

><p><em>When he walks right pass me then I finally see on this bar stool I can't stay.<br>So I'm taking my frown to a far distant town  
>On an island in the blue bay.<em>

* * *

><p>"Please, have a seat. To what do I owe the pleasure?"<p>

Wiggins was already sitting in a corner of the office. Molly glanced at him.

"I'm here about my husband. I think he's gone missing, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, repressing his smirk.

"And he was the one who left you this very handy name card, I suppose?"

She smiled, trying to look more confident than she felt.

"Indeed. You're quite perceptive."

At this Mycroft frowned. He received a text and let his eyes fall on the screen. Putting his phone back in his pocket, he smiled up at Molly. A Cheshire cat smile, only more frightening. Sherlock's was... cuter, somehow. Mycroft sent her a piercing gaze as if he could read her thoughts, and she blushed.

"So... James Harvest, was it?"

She gulped and tried to regain some composure.

"Yes."

"And you sent him off at the airport, I imagine?"

"You're quite correct."

"Nice touch, the blond hair... Miss Hooper."

"Thank you. He seemed to believe so too."

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, neither wanting to break eye contact. Mycroft's gaze was scrutinizing and _investigating, _but Molly held it steadily.

"And you haven't heard from him since...?"

"The day he left on a plane."

"To New York, yes."

Molly wondered if he had known for a while, or if it was in the text he'd just received. Either way, he probably knew more about his current location than she did.

"Have _you_ been hearing from him?" she insisted.

Mycroft sent her a quick glance.

"He's fine."

She sighed in relief.

"Alive," he amended.

"What about..."

She didn't know how to finish her sentence, wasn't even sure she could say things clearly. Again, she cast a sidelong glance at Wiggins, still sitting in the corner imperturbably.

"You can speak freely here, Miss Hooper. I can assure you _these_ walls do not have ears. And Wiggins is to be trusted. He's more attached to Sherlock than to me: he's a vagrant, you see. Head of the self-proclaimed 'Baker Street Irregulars'."

"How's John?" Molly whispered, her heart clenching.

"Alive, too."

Could he be any terser? Molly furrowed her brow slightly.

"Did you remember my face or did you get it because the writing on the back of the card was indeed a perfect imitation of yours, but as it was when you were a teenager?"

Mycroft did not seem to appreciate the humour.

"Maybe you can enlighten me, Miss Hooper. Do you have any idea what Sherlock's intentions are? Why did he 'commit' suicide?"

Her eyes widened.

"I thought you'd know more about that than I do."

"Perhaps. I'd like to hear you nonetheless."

Molly tried not to squirm as she spoke.

"He came to me saying he needed my help to fake his death because someone was after his life. It seemed he knew there was a possibility he'd be forced to commit suicide, as it was the only logical outcome – or so he said. He didn't say much after we left the mortuary. I know he had been right. They used those for whom he cared to make him jump. He came to me because..."

She laughed a little bitterly.

"... because he knew they wouldn't think I mattered enough."

"They?"

"Moriarty."

"_They_?"

She smiled.

"And you, perhaps. The _Angels_ and the _Devils_, was it?"

Mycroft's eyes hardened abruptly.

"Care to be more specific?"

She shrugged.

"Sherlock wasn't. He didn't want you to know at first, although he was aware he'd need your help later on. I guess he did find a way to let you know he was alive after all, and what he needed from you."

"And you helped him without asking any questions?"

"I didn't need to."

His smile was amused and a little disdainful.

"You are _very _devoted to him, Miss Hooper."

"It seems Sherlock has the ability to provoke extreme reactions, don't you think? Some are _very _faithful to him and feel their life is over the moment he dies, others are _very_ obsessed, so much they'd give their life to play the game and beat him. Isn't he remarkable?"

"Remarkable indeed, Miss Hooper. Remarkable indeed... So tell me: what did you come here for?"

* * *

><p><em>Far away far away, I want to go far away.<br>To a new life on a new shore line.  
>Where the water is blue and the people are new.<br>To another island, in another life._

* * *

><p>Molly straightened a bit.<p>

"I was worried."

"Why now?"

"I've heard John went abroad. To Chad, with DWB. Is it true?"

"Well, why don't you ask him?"

"I'll take that as a no. Where is he staying now?"

"Is this questioning?" Mycroft asked, smirking.

She smiled weakly to hide her embarrassed blush. Mycroft Holmes was quite intimidating. However she had taken the trouble to come all the way here, so she wanted to ask about everything that had got her confused and concerned.

"What about the Snow White serial killing?"

"You think Sherlock is involved?"

"Don't you?"

"We are not going to get very far if you answer with questions, Miss Hooper."

She frowned a little, not liking the disdainful tone.

"I could say the same for you, Mr. Holmes."

"You believe Sherlock could be behind those murders?"

"I didn't say that!" she cried, outraged. "Don't tell me _you_ of all people believe he's the murderer?"

"It is a possibility one should not disregard, I'm afraid."

"He's your brother!"

"Precisely."

Molly pursed her lips.

"I don't believe Sherlock is a murderer."

"Really?"

She glared.

"I'll give you some friendly piece of advice, Miss Hooper," Mycroft continued, walking to the door and thus showing the conversation was over. "Do not worry yourself so much over my little brother. You are a beautiful young woman, and I'm sure you have better things to do than..."

She stood up and cut him off, furious.

"Do not add insult to injury, Mr. Holmes. Things are already hard enough as they are."

"You shouldn't meddle with things you do not quite grasp, Miss Hooper," Mycroft replied calmly. "Sherlock would be devastated if something were to happen to you while he was away."

Something suddenly flickered in her eyes, but it was gone just as soon.

"I came to ask about John Watson and Sherlock. But I also thought you might want to be aware of my existence," she commented curtly as she was about to leave the room. She looked Mycroft into the eye. "In case you ever need me."

He smiled appreciatively, if a little ostentatiously.

"Of course. Here, take this with you."

He handed her a book. The title read _Three Months in the Jungle. _She stared.

"It could be very instructive, and you seem to have a lot of time on your hands if you've come all the way here to have this little chat. It's been very pleasant. Wiggins? Would you show Miss Hooper back to the front door?"

Wiggins stood up and silently left the room.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

She left without turning back.

* * *

><p><em>I want to go far away.<br>Away away, I want to go far away, away, away  
>I want to go far away, far away.<em>

* * *

><p>On the drive back (it seemed Mycroft had thought appropriate to have a car ready for her when she left the Diogenes Club), Molly took a look at the back cover of the book he had given her. She was befuddled: why in the world would he give her such a thing? Had he taken her for a complete idiot?<p>

**By the author of _Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas_ (2001) Colonel S. Moran, devoted sportsman and highly skilled shot, _Three Months in the Jungle_ is a delightfully entertaining ****collection of several travel notes the author made during his trip to Amazonia: you'll learn how to crawl down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger, aim at the most edible game in the...**

Molly stopped reading and sighed. He'd definitely taken her for an idiot.

"This is your stop, Miss."

"Ah, thank you! Well, uhm... goodbye?"

The woman sitting next to her didn't look up from her phone.

"Goodbye, Miss Gooper."

"Hooper," she grumbled as she opened the door and left the car.

A man, however, had been passing by at this exact moment and not only did she hit him with the door, she also stumbled and fell on him as she tripped over the kerb.

"Oh my God, I'm terribly sorry!"

"There's no need," said the man with a bright smile.

Molly froze. It was the stranger from the bar. He seemed to recognize her as well and his face was filled with surprise.

"You're... the woman I met the other day at the bar!"

"I don't remember _meeting_ you."

"Ha ha, quite right, quite right. You've changed you hair colour? I'm Shinwell, by the way. Shinwell Johnson."

"I'm Molly Hooper. Pleasure to meet you."

The car was gone already and she felt a little stupid now, fidgeting in front of a stranger right on her doorstep. Luckily, he broke the ice first.

"Would you like to have a drink?"

An amused smile graced her lips.

"I'd love to."

* * *

><p><em>Where the water is blue and the people are new.<br>To another life, to another life.  
>To another shore line<br>In another life. _

* * *

><p>"Shinwell Johnson? Are you certain?"<p>

"Yes, sir. Cyndia said she literally fell on him as she opened door," Wiggins replied.

"How convenient," Mycroft remarked. "And you knew nothing about it?"

Wiggins shrugged.

"Mr. Sherlock didn't say anything about it, but he didn't send many messages either. Mainly he asked about the doctor."

"I know, I know. But Shinwell Johnson?"

"He's been back on the streets for a while now. I don't think he's done anything bad lately – but we don't associate with former criminals, sir. He's one of Mr. Sherlock's informant and occasional muscle I'd say, but I didn't know they'd been in contact lately."

"Well, maybe not _lately_. Thank you, Wiggins."

The plump man bowed and left. Mycroft walked up to the window, his face thoughtful. Sherlock had cared about Molly after all. Mycroft was left to watch over John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and D.I. Lestrade. Sherlock probably was the one behind Shinwell's sudden acquaintance with Molly Hooper – he probably thought it better to have someone watch over her too, although Mycroft wondered if such a pedestrian individual could really be trusted.

His phone rang and he picked up.

"Yes? … I see. In Spain? Right. Of course. Have the media heard of it yet? Yes, maybe a few days... One gets tired of all those _Snow White _front pages. Fine. Call me back if you find any other traces of I.O.U. in the country."

He hung up. At least this whole poisoned apple affair was getting somewhere. He truly hoped Sherlock knew what he was doing, and that he was _not_ the one orchestrating it all from the shadows. He really didn't want to have to explain that to a very, _very _ upset Mummy.

He sighed in frustration.

Whatever he had thought when he believed sending his little brother on the run to break the links of Moriarty's web and dissolve the network from the inside by cutting the ties (not tackling the criminal organisations or individuals themselves, because that would be endless – and quite pointless, really), he had been wrong: Sherlock on the loose triggered much more fatigue than any worldwide criminal organisation.

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_

* * *

><p>[1] This is a (somewhat arranged) quote from Arthur Conan Doyle, in <em>Sherlock Holmes, 'The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter'<em>

_A/N: Characters  
>Molly's friend Meena is mentioned on her journal (offical BBC site by Joseph Lidster). Langdale <em>_Pike, Wiggins and Shinwell Johnson are all original characters from Conan Doyle's works, although they're only a reference here; I used them just like the BBC alludes to Conan Doyle's works through case titles or minor characters. They're not exactly the same as in the original books. As for Moran, in the Conan Doyle universe he effectively wrote such books, respectively published in 1881 and 1884... ;p  
><em>

Hope you've enjoyed reading! Reviewers are loved :)


	19. O et præsidium et dulce decus meum !

****A.N.: ****This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron.

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_**_  
><em>

_**O et præsidium et dulce decus meum ! **_**: ****literally,**** '**_O thou who art both my protection and my scherished pride'; from Horatio's Odes. _

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T for violence

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XIX: <strong>_O et præsidium et dulce decus meum ! _

_song: Overboard, by Ingrid Michaelson _

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I could write my name by the age of three<br>and I don't need anyone to cut my meat for me.  
>I'm a big girl now, see my big girl shoes.<br>It'll take more than just a breeze to make me_

_Fall over, fall over, fall overboard, overboard.  
>Fall overboard just so you can catch me.<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Moscow, February 11, 2013<strong>_

Russia in winter was cold, you thought. How _surprising._ Siberia had been worse, though, and so you didn't complain – mentally, that is. You could no longer complain a lot to... well, anyone, really.

Your hair was black again and you were glad. You had missed it. You also found it suited you better, no matter what women said. You'd met quite a lot of them recently. The one you were currently waltzing with at a high-class ball in the honour of the French ambassador – a ball to which only government officials were invited – was quite lovely. Older, too. Very proud, you could tell. Not for long.

As you were swirling around, your eye caught a familiar hair colour and a captain's uniform. You averted your gaze and ignored the twinge. Soon the musicians finished the piece and the dance ended. Your partner led you to the buffet. You hadn't even spoken to her yet. The dance had, after all, been purely accidental. Of course.

"Sherlock Holmes," she smiled.

"... is dead, I'm afraid," you completed seamlessly. "Pleasure to meet you, Barbara."

"The pleasure is mine, Mr... ?"

"You can call me Kazimir." You tilted your head to the side in a way you thought sweet and friendly, and which produced the opposite effect on her.

"I've heard of your fall. That was quite something! How did you weasel out of it?"

Your eyebrow arched a little at the word 'weasel', but you smiled smoothly at her.

"I've discovered I have wings."

"Have you now?" There was uncertainty in her voice.

Taking two glasses of Champagne from the tray of a waiter passing by, you offered her one. She accepted gracefully.

"So, how did you meet Jim?"

"I believe I caught his eye," you admitted playfully.

She frowned slightly. You took a sip of Champagne and grimaced a little, your upper lip curling in disdain, then went on.

"And so he attempted to catch mine – quite successfully I must say."

"Oh, he always got what he wanted, dear Jim."

"Did he?"

The woman's face darkened. Something like fear flashed in her eyes.

"Why do you do this? You're not one of us."

The scorn in her voice barely concealed her obvious nervousness.

"Of course not, Barbara. I'm much above." A shiver ran down her spine as you leant in and whispered in her ear: "Or have you forgotten? You. Owe. Me."

She gulped and flinched, but soon caught herself and glared daggers at you.

"I owe you nothing," she spat, "the only man I ever owed anything is dead."

"I'm afraid you're wrong here, Barbara."

She furrowed her brow tensely. You smirked and raised your glass to her. At this very moment, someone cried out and soon several screams joined the first.

"Oh my God!"

"Mr. Ambassador!"

"What happened?"

"His glass..."

"He was poisoned!"

Barbara turned white and looked up at you in astonishment. You smiled patronizingly, but your gaze was icy.

"I believe your debts just increased, my dear. But don't worry: Daddy only wants the best for you."

As you stepped closer, her grip tightened on her glass, her hand shaking.

"Now, won't you be a good girl and listen to me?"

* * *

><p><em>But as strong as I seem to think I am my distressing damsel,<br>She comes out at night when the moon's filled up and your eyes are  
>bright, then I think I simply ought to<em>

_Fall over, fall over, fall overboard, overboard.  
>Fall overboard just so you can catch me.<br>You can catch me._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saint-Petersburg, February 14, 2013<strong>_

"Cheers!"

"Budem zdorovy!"

Glasses clinked and hands touched. Why hadn't you realised that meeting in a BDSM brothel on _Valentine's Day _would be positively dreadful? You groaned, trying to block out the leather-clad strippers and dominatrix. They did not have her elegance.

"Whose elegance?" Moran said as he stepped out of nowhere and sat across from you.

Had you said that out loud?

"Nobody," you replied curtly, making a conscious effort not to wince at the sight of his military stance.

"Irene Adler, perhaps?"

This was no time to lose your self-control, so you smirked.

"Indeed. Did you have the pleasure to meet her?"

"Unfortunately not. I don't think she would've been my type anyway."

"She wasn't mine either."

Moran leant back into the velvety coach before resuming in a more serious tone:

"Did it go well?"

"Is asking useless questions a habit of yours, Seb?"

He glanced at you with surprise, probably startled by how similar your tone was to Moriarty's – the little nickname, too. He shrugged.

"I was just wondering."

"Well, that's not what I'm paying you for, now, is it?"

Someone screamed in the next room, from pain or pleasure, you weren't sure.

"Talking about what I'm paying you for... You're not in the Himalayas anymore. You must have more precision in your work."

He frowned, obviously offended by the reference to his book.

"I wrote _Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas_ years ago, Sherlock."

"A youthful indiscretion, then."

"What did I do that didn't satisfy you?"

"I would have expected more skill and delicacy in the way you handled the Snow White serial-killing."

"I got rid of the killer, though."

"Yes, which is not what I asked you to do."

"What–"

"I asked you to _find_ the true killer and make him stop."

"Which I did! I don't see the problem."

"Well I do," you told him icily, stressing each syllable. He fell quiet. "Why are there still murders if you got rid of the killer, pray tell?"

"They're _different_ killers..." he said, fidgeting a bit.

"Exactly. Next time, make sure you know who you're dealing with first. I cannot believe Jim would have trained you to be so _useless_."

His eyes darkened and you saw sheer hatred flash in them before it was drowned into his default casualness.

"Speaking of Jim, I've been wanting to ask you... "red-de-cielo"?" [1]

Moran shrugged – a habit of his. Not a pleasant one, either.

"I didn't choose the name. It was just one of Jim's little puns."

Four assassins had moved in the neighbourhood of Baker Street, you thought, only half paying attention to your hitman.

"He didn't like Mycroft very much, did he?"

Sulejmani from Albania (dead). Ludmila Dyachenko from Russia. Sebastian Moran, also one of the three snipers. Jaagup Lepp, from Estonia (dead).

"Oh yes he did."

You arched an eyebrow. He smirked.

"The Iceman, remember?"

But there had been five wireless networks when you had checked: one with an Albanian name, one with a Russian name, one with an Estonian name, one with a Czech name, and one with a Spanish name.

"Precisely. I always thought Jim would be more of the fiery type."

Four assassins, three gunmen. A hitman under cover as a policeman for Lestrade, a fake repair worker for dear, unsuspecting Mrs. Hudson, one who could easily sneak into their flat to put a camera. And for John... Of course, the irony. "A pet for a pet", Jim would have said.

"Like Ms. Adler perhaps?"

You smirk back. If Sebastian Moran was indeed the one behind the Spanish network, then the remaining one on the list must have been that of the repair man. And that only leaves us with...

"You tell me."

… Czech.

* * *

><p><em>I watch the ships go sailing by<br>I play the girl will you play the guy.  
>And I never thought I'd be the type<br>to fall, _

_to fall, _

_to fall, _

_to fall, _

_to fall._

* * *

><p>You woke up with a start to the sound of thunder, breathless. The room in which you were staying was cramped and squalid – an old family manor.<p>

Sitting up, you looked out of the window on your right. The rain was pouring outside, the sky shattered by lightning. You were alone in bed, and the mattress was cold under your body.

"What are you talking about, Sexy? You're dead, remember?"

You jumped at the obnoxious singsong voice. Walking out from the shadows in a corner of the room, Moriarty grinned at you wildly.

"Hello, my dear. Have you missed me?"

Instinctively, you went for the gun that lay under your pillow and aimed it at your nemesis.

"Tut tut, that won't do at all! Have you forgotten already? I'M DEAD TOO!"

He swirled around and suddenly the wall facing your bed faded away. Your vision was blurred for a moment but when the fog broke you made out the contours of another room. A shiver ran down your spine. A torture room – something you'd been quite accustomed to these past few months. Well, when you say accustomed... you'd seen enough. _Enough for a lifetime. _

This time you couldn't ignore the twinge in your chest as the memory flashed before your eyes. _John_.

"Exactly! You're so clever. That's why I love you, dear."

A sense of dread fell over you at his words. _No._

"Oh yes," Jim susurrated.

In the middle of the room that had just appeared stood a wheel with a man strapped on it.

"_He's _not dead, you see. So we can have some fun."

"No."

Moriarty turned to you, arching an eyebrow.

"No? But I'm sure you're going to enjoy this. Come on, just sit back and watch. I'll handle it."

He blinked and instantly chains were growing from the darkness surrounding your bed, curling up around your limbs, pinning you securely to the springer. The pressure of the bonds was stronger on your chest, and you could feel the coldness of the metal through the fabric of your clothes. You struggled and the chains tightened around your throat, dug into your thighs. Your voice failed you.

John's didn't. His first scream ripped through the oppressive air of the bedroom and through your soul.

"Your soul? You think you still have one?" Moriarty mused as he cracked a long black whip onto the creaking floorboard.

And then onto John's torso.

You didn't know whether the scream burst out from your chest or John's – all you knew was that you were transfixed by the sight of him being tortured. His skin had cracked where the whip had struck, splitting into a a long red curve that stretched almost languorously from his shoulder to his groin. Leather met skin again and this time John's body opened up even more under the lash, the wound brighter and deeper, tracing a beautiful line. And another. And another. Slowly, John's chest was blooming. You were incapable of averting your eyes. You were watching _hungrily._

"Please... Please stop..."

It didn't cross your mind that begging was quite uncharacteristic a behaviour on John's part. His voice was oozing out of his mouth like the blood out of the furrows on his torso, thick and sweet. The whip cracked again. You watched John's body contorting helplessly, becoming redder and wetter with each strike. You watched his skin split open wider and wider, displaying the intimate tint of his raw flesh. The whip cracked and another cleft blossomed along with a cry. Crack, split, scream. The tempo was heady. The music, exquisite. John's voice._  
><em>

Moriarty walked up to him and winded the whip round his neck twice before squeezing deliberately. John's cry soon turned into a moan, then a hiss, and finally barely a whimper. Mirroring him, you felt your own body being ripped apart, the air squeezed out of your lungs.

It sent a jolt straight to your groin.

John was released and gasped for air desperately. His throat was raw, the hue lighter than the deep carmine of his chest. He was panting heavily through moist, parted lips, struggling to catch a breath that was no longer his to control.

"Being enthusiastic, aren't you?" Moriarty asked with a devilish grin, tilting his head to the side.

Somewhere in your mind you thought you might have looked exactly like that to Barbara today. But you were brought back to the present abruptly as Jim started running a scalpel over John's chin, titillating the skin, not quite ready to bring it relief and let it be slashed open. Tears filled John's eyes and he started trembling. His face broke into a plea, his lips parting more widely still as the blade gently slid into his flesh.

"No... please... stop this... please... AAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Another lightning to accompany his screams. He looked up, bloody and exhausted, and caught your eye. A flash of hope and recognition.

"Sherlock..."

His voice was hoarse from the shrieks and supplications. You loved his voice. You would have given anything to hear it again.

"Should I make him scream for you again, Sherlock?" Moriarty said.

_Yes. Yes, please. _

He smirked.

"No... please... Sherlock... Sherlock! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

His howling filled the room again and you were drinking his every yelp and wail and moan, his every tear and drop of blood, taking in every inch of his tanned and now torn skin, engraving his every gesture and facial expression into your soul.

"You don't have one, remember?" Moriarty chimed in, happily teasing the sensitive flesh around the nipples with his scalpels. John was writhing hopelessly on the wheel, sending beseeching glances in your direction, calling your name over and over again.

"Sherlock... Sherlock! Aaah! Please, Sherlock... _Sherlock!"_

You wished he'd never stop.

As if reading your thoughts, Moriarty suddenly stuck the scalpel into John's left hand, eliciting the loudest and most horrifying howl to this point. You watched the blade penetrate the palm and pierce it neatly, mesmerized.

"Oh God... Sherlock, please... please, Sherlock... Sherlock, Sherlock... God, let me live..."

Another feral shriek was ripped from his throat as the scalpel slid out of his flesh then thrust back in, over and over again until he was so dazed from the pain he could no longer beg, and only screamed. His hand was reduced to a beating pulp, a flower in full bloom, begging to be plucked. Your breath caught in your throat as John arched his back, thrashing wildly, tossing back and forth in a frantic attempt to escape the blade, his lips always more parted, his skin opening up always further, until there was nothing left to uncover, nothing left to set free and expose. Sweat, blood, and tears mingled and ran down his bare body, washing it anew, making the want to _touch_ all the more compelling. All the more throbbing.

"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock _SHERLOCK!"_

You woke up with a start to the sound of thunder, breathless.

The sheets of your bed were damp with sweat and your hotel room was colder than you recalled. _John_. You retched and jolted to your feet, getting to the bathroom just on time to empty your stomach in the lavatory bowl.

Once you had nothing left to throw up, you realized you were shaking uncontrollably, and that you were still hard. It made you so sick you thought you would pass out from the sheer intensity of the nausea, but you managed to crawl into the shower and turn the cold water on, letting it pour over you.

_Disgusting... I'm disgusting... Despicable... _

You didn't realize you were crying, your tears washed away by the icy water.

You tried to take a hold of yourself, praying to a God you never believed in that the water would wash your erection away too, because you didn't think you could live with it, you knew you just wouldn't, you'd be ready to use the knife hidden in your suitcase if it didn't stop _right now. _

_Calm down. _

This was just a dream and a physiological reaction. Torture rooms and brothels really weren't your cup of tea, and you'd had quite enough of those recently. Of course that must be the only reason your brain was so messed up. You would never find such a scene arousing in real life.

You wouldn't.

...would you?

Jolting up with something like panic in your chest, you concentrated on the nightmare. _Delete. Delete. DELETE. _The room was erased and the whip and Moriarty's laughter, but John's screams still echoed in your mind.

_Fine_.

The Thieving Magpie. _Sherlock!_ Such an unbelievable story, really. _Sherlock!_ The girl, Ninetta, is accused of having stolen a silver spoon from her employer, Fabrizio Vingradito, and her whole life is upended on this false assumption made by his wife Lucia. _SHERLOCK!_ Poor Ninetta is sentenced to death and is about to lose the love of her life as the one she supposedly stole from is the father of the man she was to marry, Giannetto, but luckily he and her father Fernando Villabella come back from the war and find out in time that the spoon was in fact stolen by... a magpie. _Please, Sherlock..._ Such a ridiculous plot, if there ever was one. _Sherlock, please, Sherlock..._ Completely improbable. Not impossible, though. _Sherlock..._

That was why it was the symbol of IOU. All indebted to Moriarty, but no Devils at all: they used the Devils to their advantage and for their own purpose, never getting caught, never really dirtying their hands. Devils in a metaphorical sense perhaps, Angels from the government, police, secret services, but whose wings were actually black. Like the graffiti. Little Ninetta and Lucia and Fabrizio were all fooled, and by a silly _bird_ to boot. But a bird had wings, and could get into the room without anyone noticing.

You laughed brokenly, voice coated in bitter irony.

How cynical. A fallen angel, indeed. You spent another hour under the frosting water pouring on top of you until John's screams faded away. By the end of the shower, you were no longer shivering.

Only cold and flaccid.

* * *

><p><em>To fall over, fall over, fall overboard, overboard.<br>Fall overboard just so you can catch me.  
>You can catch me, you can catch me, you can catch-<em>

_I watch the ships go sailing by I be your girl will you be my guy._  
><em>And I never thought I'd be the type to fall, to fall.<em>

* * *

><p>The trip from Vienna to Innsbruck wasn't as long as the one you took on the Trans-Siberian Railway, but you still hated to remain sitting for hours. You missed London. You missed Baker Street. You missed–<p>

_I'm not far from Bach's land, now, _you mused.

It still puzzled you that Moriarty would have liked Bach's pieces enough to use gemmatria to communicate with the I.O.U. people – and with Moran, too. _Seb_. You snorted. Moriarty had been so condescending to... to John, and yet _his_ henchman (for lack of a better word) was such an idiot. _Is he really? And was John a genius? _

I.O.U. They were quite powerful indeed. You could see why Mycroft would want their names on a platter. They acted like Angels and played the Devils. Government officials or not, all of them had key positions in their respective countries. Most of all, they had a most respectable façade – and everything a man could wish for. Money, contacts, _power. _

You smirk to yourself. That's why they bored old Jim in the end. Quite ordinary indeed, even if they _were_ smart enough to get away with their deeds. They were on the side of the Angels, the side of the Law. Envied, even admired, they were apparently above suspicion – except that no one was, really. They'd been clever, and they'd met Moriarty. Or Moriarty had met them, either way. You suspected he was rather the one to have spotted their use, and orchestrated the 'chance encounters'.

Fallen angels, then, like Lucifer. God's most favoured archangel, who was cast down to Hell but became the King, there. _I owe you a Fall_, he'd said. Were you Lucifer then, now? The one wearing the crown...

Your expression clouded. You never wanted to be a king. You wanted to be a pirate.

_I owe you a Fall. I. O. U. You have to see that, you've got to see the big bad world out there for yourself, Sherlock. See and make up your mind. Is it really worth it? Being the King is the most fun you can have in this world, and yet... it's boring. Everyone is ordinary in the end. Everything is so dull. I'm out of here. _BANG.

You wished you could be out of here too.

* * *

><p><em>To fall...<em>

_To fall..._

_To fall..._

_To fall over, fall over, fall overboard, overboard._  
><em>Fall overboard just so you can catch me.<em>  
><em>You can catch me.<em>

* * *

><p>You got off a little before Innsbruck and watched the train leave you behind. As you walked into the small station, you spotted a phone booth and considered it for a while. Making up your mind, you went up to it, put in some coins and dialled a series of numbers. It rang twice before someone picked up on the other end.<p>

"Hello, brother. You should warn Lestrade that the policeman who started working at the Met in April 2012 and who's of German descent is a hitman."

You hung up. If he really did manage to track your call (which you highly doubted), by the time he arrived you'd be long gone. You walked away, smirking, relishing the warm weather; finally you were starting to feel your limbs again after a winter spent in Russia.

But no matter what, your left hand remained as cold as ice.

* * *

><p><em>You can catch me. <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_

* * *

><p>[1] red-de-cielo : one of the networks that appear on the screen when Sherlock checks on John's laptop in Season 2, Episode 3, after he's found the hidden camera on the bookcase. It's Spanish for "Network of the Sky" or "of the Heaven".<p> 


	20. Ex silentio

**A/N: **This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron.

****Nutrisco et extinguo:**** _"_I feed upon it and extinguish it"_  
><em>

_**Ex silentio:**__ "from silence"; an 'argumentum ex silentio' is a conclusion drawn based on the absence of evidence, rather than on the existence of evidence.  
><em>

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter X<strong>**X****: ****Ex silentio**

_song: The Chain, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>The sky looks pissed<br>The wind talks back  
>My bones are shifting in my skin<br>And you, my love, are gone _

* * *

><p>"<em>The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!"<em>

"_Friend of mine. Well, I say friend..."_

"_I don't have friends. I've only got one."_

"_Goodbye, John."_

"_SHERLOCK!"_

John falls. At first it is from Bart's rooftop, then some dark corridor and a river. It feels like drowning. The more he screams the name, the more his lungs seem to fill with water until he can no longer make a sound. Falling becomes fainting and everything goes white. He opens his eyes and sees a mop of black hair. _Sherlock_. The word dies in his chest before it ever reaches his throat. "_John__." _

His voice saves John. It gives him back the use of his vocal chords, as a pair of full lips presses against the side of his neck and kisses its way down his collarbone. John arches his back with a sigh, exposing his torso, revelling in the warmth of the hands roaming over his skin. He wishes they'd merge into his abdomen, wishes he could swallow them all, hands, fleshy lips and dark curls, so there would be only one flesh, only one man: only one soul.

_Don't be stupid, John. If I were you, I couldn't be me. And it's me you want, isn't it? _

_Then I don't care if I disappear, I'll be you. _

_Apart from the fact that's incredibly presomptuous of you, if you were me, then you couldn't want me. Just think, for once. For two people to be together, they must remain distinct. _

_Oh, shut up._

Running his hand through Sherlock's hair and pulling, John crushes their lips together until he can no longer tell them apart. There's only friction and fire and it's just too much for him to hold – he feels ready to burst any moment. _John, John, John. _A hand strokes the inside of his arm all the way down to the wrist and laces its fingers with his.

The moment John squeezes back, the world collapses as if a star had died and his vision is filled with a blinding light. He wakes up with a gasp.

It takes him a few seconds to remember where he is. When, too. Time has become three-dimensional: there's a before, a during, and an after. The before is white, the after is black, and the whole spectrum of colours can only be found in the during.

John shrugs. That's a stupid metaphor. He must be still half-sleeping to be so manichean first thing in the morning. As he becomes aware of the wetness between his legs, he wakes up with a jolt, eyes wide.

But all they meet is an empty space besides him on the bed.

He groans, refusing to move. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel Sherlock's body on his and the soft puffing of his breath on his shoulder. He never wants it to stop.

* * *

><p><em>My room feels wrong<br>The bed won't fit  
>I cannot seem to operate<br>And you, my love, are gone _

* * *

><p>Walking briskly through Clapham Common, John is trying very hard to forget the shame of the morning, wondering how he can possibly deal with his sex life (or lack thereof) if he only gets hard for someone who's six feet under. He doesn't want to lose that too, although he knows deep in his heart that they are sheer fantasies, his own, and do not bring him any closer to the man Sherlock truly was. They're nothing but phantasms.<p>

John finally found a job and started working part-time at a clinic again. It seems Lestrade, and Sherlock's fans, succeeded in "spreading the word", as they said. Sherlock Holmes's name was cleared. He never was a fake, and now appeared as a victim of society's misjudgement. John bought none of it. Sherlock _didn't_ care. And if he truly was distressed over the fact everyone thought he was an impostor when he wasn't, he wouldn't have bothered lying to him before jumping. This is all so messy John still can't make any sense out of it.

Well, no wonder, he thinks bitterly. _Moriarty_ is the one who orchestrated it all. There is no way _he_ can understand. But _Sherlock_? Sherlock definitely could. So what happened that day for him to end up committing suicide? He knew. He knew and he sent John away so he could be alone with Moriarty. To play their damn game. But who was the winner? Both died that day.

Stopping by the pond, John realises his walk isn't doing him any good. It usually does, and that is why he kept up the habit, even after he started working again. It invigorates him, helps him get a grip. But not today.

It doesn't feel like the place where he should be. And where else should he be? He can't move out of London, because he needs the city life. Where would he go anyway? London is home. London is where he met Sherlock. The city that the consulting detective knew like the back of his hand.

John closes his eyes as it dawns on him. Of course. He knows where he should be, where he needs to be right now.

Newport cemetery is even quieter in the morning than Clapham. Joh snorts. No kidding. It is a cemetery, after all.

He hasn't been to Sherlock's grave since the night he tried to dig him out. He certainly wouldn't try now, and the thought makes him retch. He never liked cemeteries, because there are so many people there it never feels intimate enough to have a decent conversation with the dead. Not that the dead would care, obviously.

Still, having Sherlock buried in such a common place doesn't feel right. John wonders what his friend would have said. "Just give the body to Bart's so it won't go to waste"? John isn't quite sure Sherlock would've been so nonchalant regarding his own corpse. Then again, maybe he would've. But no matter what, John can't imagine him wanting to be buried among others. "My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?" … On second thoughts, maybe John can imagine it.

Staring at the stone wordlessly, he almost asks the same question over and over again. _Why did you have to kill yourself, Sherlock? What was going on in your crazy mind that day? You should have told me. Why didn't you tell me? Why, why, why..._

Instead, he touches the stone gingerly and says:

"What can I do? What can I do, Sherlock, if you're not coming back, and I can't go to you?"

* * *

><p><em>So glide away on soapy heels<br>And promise not to promise anymore  
>And if you come around again<br>Then I will take, then I will take the chain from off the door _

* * *

><p>When John enters the flat, he can tell from the absence of her coat and shoes that Harry's already gone to work. He lets out a sigh. John knows he'll have to talk to his sister at one point, but he also knows it won't lead them anywhere. She's mad at him for lying to her and attempting suicide, and more than that, she's hurt, and scared too.<p>

As he walks into the living-room he sees Chris sitting at the table, frowning as her eyes scan the screen of her laptop.

"Hello, Chris."

"John! I didn't even notice you'd gone out. Thought you were sleeping in."

John laughs.

"Do I look like the type to sleep in?"

She pouts.

"Well, it's never too late to take up good habits."

"What are you looking for?"

Chris sighs and runs a hand through her bright red hair.

"Harry's birthday present."

Oh. Right. This Thursday is Harry's thirty-eighth birthday.

"I thought you'd already bought her something."

"Of course I have, but I also asked her yesterday if there was anything she'd like."

"What did she say?"

"An Italian restaurant."

He stares.

"She wants to start a restaurant?"

"No, John, she loves Italian food. And she never told me!"

"Well, she never told me either," he says, grinning as he sits down.

She chuckles.

"No offence, but she's more likely to tell _me_ this sort of things, y'know. Tastes and all."

"Right."

They exchange a smile.

"I've been looking all morning for something good, but I just don't trust sites and forums, and none of my friends had any recommendation to make. I'm looking for something simple, you know how Harry is. I was surprised she even mentionned going to a restaurant, because she never seemed inclined to go when I asked her out – she said spending money on food you can make yourself is a waste. Of course if I'd known she liked Italian food I would've cooked it for her more often, but... Anyway, I think a small neighborhood restaurant with regular clients and a cosy atmosphere would be the best."

"Well, maybe I know just the place."

"Really? That'd be great!"

"It's called Angelo's."

"And where is it?"

"Um... across 22 Northumberland street."

She arched an eyebrow.

"How come you don't know the address but... _oh_." She grins widely. "A woman's place, perhaps?" she teases.

John laughs it off, and she doesn't pry any further.

"I'm really glad you could recommend something! Harry'll be very happy. You're free on Thursday night of course?"

John pales imperceptibly.

"You mean you're not going as a couple?"

Chris laughs.

"Of course not! We've got all the night for that." She winks. "Harry wanted us all to go together. That's probably why she picked a restaurant."

Then she takes in John's expression and shivers.

"John? Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing. Everything's all right."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course," he reassures her with a smile.

She smiles back.

"Well, now that the matter's closed, what about breakfast? Unless you had some before your walk, of course."

"Nope."

"Good. How come did you go out so early? Trouble sleeping?"

She tries to sound cheerful as she puts the kettle to boil but John hears the undertone of worry. Chris really is a kind person. He can't imagine him and Sherlock accepting to live with Harry after she'd attempted suicide. Okay, so maybe Sherlock isn't a very relevant example, as John can't really imagine him living with anyone but him, but_–_

"John?"

He swallows with difficulty.

"Yes. Sorry. Lost in thoughts."

She prepares the toast in silence and once the water's ready, serves the tea. They drink quietly. Finally, she says:

"I think you should go out more, John. I mean, really out, with people... women."

He chuckles bitterly.

"I'm not sure I can do that anymore."

Chris stares.

"So you're just gonna stay cold turkey all your life? You can't be serious !"

John shrugs dismissively.

"I'm fine, really."

"Really? I won't believe a healthy man like you doesn't have anything that shakes his boat."

"Oh, I do. "

"Perfect! See? We've all got needs and fancies."

"I'm afraid mine are a bit rotten by now."

She tilts her head to the side, then blanches as she gets it.

"Oh John I'm sor_–_"

"It's fine. Please don't apologise. I really don't want to feel like you're pitying me," he replies softly.

"I'm not! It's just... I mean, I can only imagine, but if anything were to happen to Harry..."

Her voice dies in her throat and for a moment John thinks she's going to cry. He takes her hand.

"I'm fine. Just saying, that's why I can't really chase women right now. It'd be somewhat awkward if they woke up to me coming with a man's name on the lips."

"Then what about men?"

John sends her a startled look.

"What?"

"I mean, I know it's not the same of course, but since you've fallen for one already... Perhaps you should try and go for men?"

"I'm not gay."

"It's not an insult."

"Of course not! What I'm saying is_–_"

"I know you've only ever been attracted to women before you met Sherlock Holmes. But now, you can't imagine sleeping with a woman again because you'd feel bad for her. So why don't you try men?"

"Because I'm not attracted to men!"

"Have you tried?"

"I meet many on the street, you know. I don't need to be in a bed to know whom I find attractive – or _not._"

She sighs.

"It was just a piece of friendly advice. All I'm saying is that it's not healthy."

"The result is the same, though."

Chris doesn't point out how sinister that comment is, and they finish eating in silence.

* * *

><p><em>I'll never say that I'll never love<br>But I don't say a lot of things  
>And you, my love, are gone <em>

* * *

><p>The next day is a series of unfortunate events.<p>

John is shaving off in the bathroom when Harry bursts in and he starts, cutting himself unintentionally. He groans in annoyance and doesn't notice Harry's eyes widen in horror when all she sees is her brother holding a razor blade with blood on his hands. She snaps.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What? I should be the one asking! What were you thinking bursting in on me like that! Don't you know what a closed bathroom door means?"

"Well maybe we should buy you a sign 'Suicide in process – Do not disturb'!"

She's shaking already and tears of rage are filling her eyes. This time it's John who looks at her in astonishment.

"What? I was just_–_"

"You really don't give a damn, do you?"

John feels his irritation rising by the second.

"Harry I_–_"

"Do you even realise what you've made me go through?"

"Why does it always have to be about you?"

"I'm alive, John! And so are you! Can't you just stop thinking about the dead?"

His hands tighten into fists and he tries to calm himself down.

"How dare you_–_"

"I can't trust you anymore! You told me you were going to Chad, I thought you'd followed my advice, I was so happy that night and then I get that call and learn you've just tried to off yourself when I had been thinking all the previous day about you, hoping you'd made it safely there and that the job gave you a good first impression, and_–_"

"Oh _please_, cut me all the pathos, will you?"

"You're just so damn selfish!"

"Look who's talking!"

"Oh _I_'m selfish now? Whose house do you think this is?"

John's cheeks burn in fury – and shame, perhaps.

"I never asked to be here! Whenever you let me move out!"

"Oh yeah, so you can just cut yourself in peace?"

"God Harry I wasn't_–_"

"You know what? I don't care. If you want to drown in your own blood, do so. Just don't do it here."

"Won't you shut up and listen to me?"

"What's going on here?" Chris exclaims as she comes running, alerted by their shouts.

"I've had enough," Harry says before storming out and slamming the door to their bedroom.

"Harry!"

Chris goes in after her, and John can hear them talk animatedly. Closing his eyes, he sighs.

He's had enough, too.

* * *

><p><em>So glide away on soapy heels<br>And promise not to promise anymore  
>And if you come around again<br>Then I will take the chain from off the door _

* * *

><p>John left the flat before the two women came out of the room and spent the day wandering about London, ignoring texts and calls. He just wasn't in the mood. Now it's already evening but he doesn't feel like going back at all, still upset with the morning's event. It was so stupid.<p>

There isn't anyone to vent his frustration on, and so even walking all day hasn't calmed his nerves. He wishes he had to go to the clinic, because at least that would have been a distraction. But he only works three days a week, plus some filling in hours here and there. He's glad to be going tomorrow, though.

As for now, he just wants to find a way to release the anger and the stress. He thinks of Chris, and of what she told him. What if she was right? He doesn't care who he'd be sleeping with since they wouldn't mean anything. Moreover, men still give him the impression to be less relationship-obsessed, and more likely to be perfectly fine with a one-night stand. Well aware that this is completely insane, he looks up gay bars on his phone.

He feels very awkward at first, and barely looks the barman in the eye when ordering his drink. The very idea of a gay bar means you're looking for a partner, whether it's for a long-term relationship or just a quick fuck. Not because it's a _gay_ bar, mind you, but just because it's a bar that explicitly states the sexual preferences of its customers, and so obviously, people aren't just coming to have a drink.

"Can I sit here?"

Oh God, that's just so cliché. Do people still say that? John turns to the man who's just spoken and forces a smile.

"Please do."

He isn't bad looking – tall with brown hair and sun-tanned skin. John can't say he feels any kind of attraction whatsoever, but at least he's not revulsed. To be fair, he doesn't feel much at the moment.

"I've never seen you here. Is this your first time?"

"I assume you're a regular, then," John replies, smirking slightly.

The stranger grins back, amused, and extends a hand.

"I'm Peter. Pleasure to meet you …?"

"John."

"John. So what brings you here on a weekday, John?"

"I had a quarrel and felt like going out."

Peter's smile grows unexpectedly wider.

"Lovers' spat, then?"

John glances at him sideways, wondering if he's the type that gets off on adultery.

"No. I had a fight with my sister."

"Your sister? Oh."

They talk for an hour or so about everything and nothing – rugby, work (he's an automotive engineer) and travels. Peter looks absolutely thrilled to know John's been to war – "A soldier !" he exclaims. Finally, he asks him if he'd like to come over for dinner. John can't help but be reminded of Irene Adler, and the thought is enough to prompt a "Sure, why not" before he knows what he's saying. Here he goes again with his utterly absurd jealousy of two _dead_ people, but he couldn't care less.

Peter turns out to be a fairly decent cook, although he can't compete with Chris's cooking – then again, she's a professional. His flat is simple and impersonal. Elegant, but anonymous. John can tell from one look that it's the perfect flat to bring in strangers; it barely feels like someone truly lives here. Or maybe Peter just completely lacks personality.

It's only when he asks him whether he'd like to take a shower or not that John realises what he's doing. He certainly wouldn't feel bad at all for shouting someone else's name in the arms of such an easy-going guy, but he's not sure he can bear to be in his arms at all. It _is_ a _guy_ after all. Yet John isn't one to back off before he's sure he's not just reacting out of fear. If he is indeed gay, he doesn't want to run away from it. He did fall for Sherlock after all, and one can hardly confuse him for a woman.

When he comes out of the shower, Peter looks disappointed.

"You put your clothes back on?"

John chuckles.

"Did you want me to come out in a towel?"

"Obviously. I wouldn't have given you such a small one if I didn't," Peter retorts with a smirk.

They sit on the bed and stare at each other for a moment. Then Peter leans in and presses his lips to John's, taking advantage of his surprise to deepen the kiss. John grabs the sheets tensely and for some reason Peter takes it as an invitation, and sneaking a hand between his legs, cups him. John gasps.

"Sensitive, aren't we?"

John gulps. This isn't going to work. He's not even getting hard, and now clearly feels nauseous.

"Peter..."

"Mm?" he answers, trailing wet kisses on the side of John's neck.

John jumps back, trying very hard not to show any sign of disgust on his face, and makes for a quick escape.

"I'm sorry. I can't do this."

"What? Hey, wait! Where are you going? John!"

But the engineer stands no chance catching up with the ex-soldier, who's suddenly very intent to get as far away from him as possible.

"You can't just turn on people like this and leave them hanging!" Peter shouts from the staircase before giving up.

Maybe John does feel a bit bad for him after all.

* * *

><p><em>So glide away on soapy heels<br>And promise not to promise anymore_

* * *

><p>"Still no answer?" Harry asks for the umpteenth time that day. She's been worrying herself to distraction and Chris has tried to soothe her down all night.<p>

"No. But he will come, Harry. It's your birthday."

"We never celebrated birthdays."

"But he said he'd come. He was the one who chose the restaurant."

"Hello ladies, two people?"

"Three," Chris answers determinedly. Harry just looks away.

"Would you like the table by the window?"

"That sounds lovely."

"What if he really did... this time..." Harry whispers as she sits down.

"Stop right here. We've already had this conversation. I'm sure that was all a misunderstanding and he just needed to cool off a bit. It's hard on him, Harry. I know you know, but keep it in mind."

"Yeah."

Angelo brings them the menus and is back a few minutes later.

"Would you like to order now or would you rather wait?" he enquires in a rather loud voice so as to cover the bell of the door indicating new clients.

"I think they can order now, Angelo – I'll have the Rigatoni al Forno."

"John!" he and Harry exclaim in unison as Chris sighs in relief.

John gives a little apologetic smile, and walks up to his sister, uncovering the enormous bunch of flowers he held behind his back.

"Happy birthday, Harry."

She looks up at him with wide eyes, dumbfounded, and takes the flowers.

"Thank you. Look, I'm_–_"

"John Watson! It's been so long !" Angelo cuts in, hugging him forcefully.

John, choking in the overly virile embrace of the hefty man, pats his back tentatively, surprised by his enthusiasm.

"Anything on the menu for you and your friends!"

"This is my sister Harry and her partner, Chris. And Angelo, there's no reason we shouldn't p_–_"

Angelo looks appalled and slightly offended.

"Do you think I am a man who forgets his benefactors?"

"I'm not one of your benefactors, Angelo."

"No, but Sherlock... Oh, Sherlock..."

Now it is John's turn to look appalled as big tears begin to roll on the tanned face, and Angelo wipes his nose dramatically.

"Now, Angelo_–_"

"He was such an incredible man. I can't believe he... he... he couldn't have killed himself just like that!"

"I know," John answers grimly. Then on a lighter tone : "Won't you bring a candle?"

They lock eyes and something seems to break in Angelo's gaze. His face fills with emotion, sorrow and the understanding of pain; and even something like admiration. He smiles back knowingly.

"Of course, John. And a cake for the lady, too."

"I'll have the Lasagna con Cavolifiore."

"And me the Fettucine Alfredo."

Once Angelo has left with their orders, John finally sits at the table, and feels the heavy gazes of Chris and his sister on him. He turns to Harry first.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. You startled me and made me cut myself unintentionnaly, and then you started railing at me and I snapped."

"No, it's me, I_–_"

"Chris," he interrupts, turning to her this time, "don't you dare start feeling guilty for bringing us here now that you know why I was familiar with the place. I'm happy to be here."

Both women stare dumbly, speechless. Finally, Chris bursts out laughing.

"What in the world did you do last night, John?"

"I followed some piece of friendly advice."

Chris chokes, spilling her water.

"You _what?"_

"Hey, what am I missing?"

"Are you serious?"

"Quite."

"How did it go?"

"Hey, would someone mind explaining to me?"

Chris sends John an inquisitive look. He smirks.

"I was told over breakfast that I should probably try and go for men, since it was a man I had always on my mind."

Harry goggled.

"You're gay?"

"Nope."

"But you've slept with a guy?"

"Nope."

"What ? Then you _didn't_ follow my advice!" Chris interjected.

"It was _you_? You give advice to my brother for his _sex life_?"

"Shh, don't be so loud!" Chris whispers back, blushing.

"I tried. I just couldn't do it," John finishes, ignoring Harry's comment.

They stare, picturing the scene... and burst out laughing.

* * *

><p><em>And if you come around again<em>

_Then I will take_

_Then I will take_

_Then I will take..._

* * *

><p>Dinner has gone well last night and John is secretly relieved. He and Harry never had a good relationship, but now with Chris around he begins to think that it may change one day. They still don't really understand each other, and John suspects they'll never be quite on the same wavelength; but at least now they'll be on speaking terms. Even a bit more than that, he must admit.<p>

"Are you sure about this?" Harry asks as she pours herself a cup of tea.

"No, I'm not. That's why I want to go there after work this afternoon and take a look first."

"But the last time you took a look..."

"What?"

She fidgets.

"That Holmes guy told me I should probably try to convince you not to go back to Baker Street, ever."

John curses Mycroft and arches an eyebrow.

"So?"

Harry gives him a devilish smile that reminds him of their childhood.

"So I think you should definitely go."

They exchange amused glances and John never agreed more with his sister.

His day goes by slowly and he's burning with impatience all the while he's working at the clinic. Finally, he's off and shouting to the cabbie '221 Baker Street, please!'

When he does get there, though, he suddenly becomes hesitant, and almost hopes Mrs. Hudson won't answer the door.

She does.

* * *

><p>… <em>the chain from off the door<em>

* * *

><p><em>.<br>_

_.  
><em>

_.  
><em>

**tbc**_  
><em>


	21. Medice, cura te ipsum

**A/N: **This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron.

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_  
><em>

_**_Medice, cura te ipsum_:**__ "physician, heal thyself"  
><em>

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXI: Medice, cura te ipsum<br>**

_song: Locked up, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em><em>I have taken a wrong turn?<br>When will I learn? When will I learn?  
>Shall I show them all my scars?<br>Cherry red bleeding burn__

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway as if struck by lightning. It seems the air has rushed out of her lungs, and when it rushes back in, tears fill her eyes and she says:<p>

"John."

Without another word she steps forward and hugs him tightly.

John isn't surprised. He hasn't forgotten how the dear woman always fussed and cared for them – how she treated Sherlock like her own son. A wave of guilt washes over him as he hugs her back gingerly. He should've come earlier. Or even just called her, reassured her. Told her he was fine, even if he wasn't. But he hasn't given any news at all for more than half a year. _Eight _months, he realises. Unless that note he left in the flat after his... Well. Unless that could be called 'news'.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually.

Mrs. Hudson stands up straight and wipes her tears away with a smile.

"Oh no, not at all! I'm just being silly. It's such a surprise that you came and I am so very glad you did."

He smiles back, his gaze still apologetic.

"Please come in! We're not going to stand here all day."

Taking a deep breath, John crosses the threshold. Upon seeing the familiar staircase, dozens of memories hit him in the face and he can almost see Sherlock's ghost running down the steps and dashing right through him. He closes his eyes, but then the smell overwhelms his senses – just the staircase already smells like home. Behind his eyelids John feels his chest filled with as much pain as... love.

"Are you coming in dear?"

"Yes, I'm coming."

He follows her into her living-room and is reminded of all those afternoons they had tea together and watched telly, or complained about Sherlock being... well, Sherlock. John smiles fondly and feels like an idiot when he realises he's beaming at emptiness. He shakes his head.

"You'll have a cuppa, won't you?" Mrs. Hudson inquires, already fussing about in her kitchen.

"With pleasure."

They talk for hours. Mrs. Hudson does most of the talking, because John hasn't much to say – he tells her he got a job again and now works part-time at a clinic, and that he now lives with his sister and her new girlfriend. Mrs. Hudson gives him news of her sister, Mrs. Turner who's a darling and the only one in the street who believed Sherlock wasn't a fake even before it was proven and came out in the press, Lestrade who is back in town – probably thanks to Mycroft, she adds, and John cannot help but wince at the name. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that the man was responsible for the death of his own brother.

Responsible? What is he, then? Mycroft had warned him about the assassins. He'd _shown_ him the bloody article, for God's sake! It had just been lying there for him to read. John was the one who'd been by Sherlock's side the whole time, and who'd left him precisely when he never should have. How could he possibly have believed that Sherlock would react with such indifference to his beloved landlady being shot when he'd thrown a man out of a window because of a scratch and a bruise? Mycroft was responsible for having sold Sherlock to Moriarty. But John was the one to leave Sherlock alone at the crucial moment, and yelling at him that friends protect each other, to boot. How tragically ironic. What must Sherlock have felt back then? Did he already know he was going to die? Or did things turn out worse than he expected, leading the detective to his own demise?

"John? Are you all right dear?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was asking you about Detective Inspector Lestrade. Do you see him often? He's come here a few times, mainly for testimonies – he truly fought to clear Sherlock's name, you know."

Yet another pang of guilt. John hadn't done anything about that. When Lestrade came to him, so _disgustingly_ content in John's eyes, because he'd finally proved Sherlock wasn't a fake, never had been, was in fact a genius and that they'd killed him, John just laughed at all his efforts. What he said back then, he still believes. It wouldn't do any good for Sherlock, who was six feet under and couldn't care less. It wouldn't have done any good to _him_ at the time either, because it wouldn't bring Sherlock back, and that was all John cared about. Now, things are a bit different. John has lost Sherlock so profoundly that he's desperate to cling to anything that remains of him, anything at all. And his memory _is_ something.

"I don't see Greg very often, no."

"Oh, that's such a pity," Mrs. Hudson comments in a somewhat disapproving tone, and John smiles tenderly at her motherly consideration.

"But tell me, dear," she continues, "you must have come for something today."

"Isn't wanting to see you a good enough reason?" he pleads with a charming smile.

"Tut tut, none of that with me, young man! I wasn't born yesterday."

He chuckles.

"Right. Well... I wanted to see the flat."

She eyes him searchingly.

"Are you thinking of moving back in?"

Her tone is carefully kept in check, and John wonders if he just imagined the tinge of hope he thinks he heard.

"I'm considering it, yes. But if you don't mind, I'd like to see the flat again... before I make up my mind."

She nods in understanding.

* * *

><p><em><em>Like an angry apple tree<br>I throw my apples if you get to close to me  
>But if I look to my right<br>Will I see the one I fight for?  
>If I look to my right or if I turn to my left<br>Will I see that I've kept my heart locked up?  
>Locked up so tight<em>_

* * *

><p>When he enters their living-room – what <em>used<em> to be their living-room – John halts and stares. Of course Mrs. Hudson has cleaned since the last time he came, when he basically turned the flat upside-down and ended up drugged on Sherlock's bed. He shivers as he recalls the bleak memory.

The first thing he notices is the skull grinning at him. He grins back foolishly. The smiley on the wall is still there, and John wonders why Mrs. Hudson hasn't fixed that. Right. Because Sherlock bought the flat anyway. And he's sure she wouldn't want to rent it to anyone else if she could afford not to. As he walks around, he takes in every detail, every little thing that he couldn't bear to see a few months ago. Now he craves them – he needs whatever can remind him of Sherlock, regardless of the pain it causes him.

The kitchen is completely clean, and that certainly changes from the everyday mess it used to be. John finds he doesn't like it that way, and will either have to get rid of that big table, or cover it with things. Running his fingers on the bare surface, he smiles as they come across the long scuff Sherlock made God knows how at the beginning of their flat-sharing. Maybe he'll keep the table after all.

_How sentimental_, Sherlock would say. Or perhaps he would simply snicker. Strangely, imagining his reactions doesn't hurt as much as it used to. John knows it may not be healthy; he finds he doesn't care.

The fridge is still there, just without any head inside. If someone had told John he would one day grow accustomed to finding body parts around the kitchen, he would've thought the person nuts. Which just shows.

As he turns back to the living-room, his eyes catch on the light falling through the window, and he can almost see Sherlock standing there, playing the violin. John stares, for a while.

When he comes back down the stairs half an hour later, Mrs. Hudson looks up at him expectantly, holding back her breath. John understands she's been waiting all along and sends her a warm smile, if a little wistful.

"I'm moving back," he says, and she hugs him tightly.

* * *

><p><em><em>Love, love, love, love is everywhere<br>But not a drop for me to drink  
>Tie me up and bind my feet<br>Drop me in and watch me sink__

* * *

><p>"I knew it!" exclaims Harry.<p>

John shrugs.

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did! I was sure you'd move back in just out of spite for that stuck-up know-it-all."

"No, that's something _you_ would do."

"Ha ha ha!"

He shakes his head.

"But seriously, are you going to be all right by yourself? You're not going to forget to eat, are you?"

"Harry..." Chris warns her, rolling her eyes.

"What? I was just asking. I would certainly die if I couldn't eat your delicious cooking anymore!"

"Oh, so that's why you're sticking around!"

"Of course. What else?"

John chuckles.

"You guys already sound like an old married couple."

They stare for a second, then burst out laughing.

"Well, actually_–_"

"Chris proposed to me on my birthday!" Harry blurts out, positively beaming.

John's eyes widen.

"When were you planning on telling me?"

The two women exchange a glance. It dawns on him.

"Oh. I see. You didn't want to make me feel like I had to move out."

"Look, John_–_"

But he's already chuckling, unable to stop himself.

"What? What's so funny?" presses Harry.

"You're just so silly. It's very sweet of you, but you should've just told me. Congratulations. I'm very happy for you."

"You'll be coming to the wedding, right?" his sister asks earnestly.

He arches an eyebrow.

"Of course, but you can't really have an official ceremony, can you? Unless you're thinking of a civil partnership?"

"We're going to Canada," Chris cuts in, determination in her voice and a smirk on her lips.

"To Ca... What? When?" John stutters.

"This summer. You'll be there, won't you?"

He is somewhat surprised to see worry in his sister's eyes. Even for her wedding with Clara, she wasn't so keen on asking him to come.

"I'd like you to be my best man," she adds.

This time, John gapes. Then he sees Chris's frown and collects himself, straightening with a nod, his stance military.

"Of course, Harry. I'll be honoured."

He hasn't seen such a bright smile on his little sister's face since they were children.

* * *

><p><em><em>Like an angry apple tree<br>____I throw my apples if you get to close to me  
>But if I look to my right<br>Will I see the one I fight for?  
>If I look to my right or if I turn to my left<br>Will I see that I've kept my heart locked up?  
>Locked up<em>_

* * *

><p>That day he packs his things and decides to take a last stroll through Clapham Commons. He's got so much on his mind he feels like walking will help him sort his thoughts.<p>

All of which are about Sherlock, naturally.

He still cannot understand what could have possibly prompted him to jump from Bart's rooftop on that fateful day. He'd talked to him and seen him jump. But it was Moriarty who had been with him; who had died with him. Had he died before, or after Sherlock? John couldn't be sure. What was sure, though, was that he'd been with him during the final moments of his life.

Clenching his teeth, he tries to ignore the pang of jealousy the thought causes him. _It should have been me, not you. I would've stopped him. Or jumped along to break his fall. _It's true Sherlock had called _him_ in the end, but there was no denying that he'd sent him away in order to meet up with his nemesis alone and have a little private chat. Just like the Pool. Except this time, Moriarty hadn't invited John, and the encounter had cost both men their lives.

John would give anything to know what their final conversation had been. Clearly Moriarty must have tricked Sherlock, but was he aware of it before going to the rooftop, or did he only realise it once he got there? Like a trap closing up on him... John shivers and bites his lip, refusing to drown in the guilt gnawing in the pit of his stomach. The frustration, too. He should've known something was wrong, but he, his best friend, his _only friend_, had been fooled. It was so strange. Sherlock didn't care what people thought of him, and John had been the one worrying about them thinking he was a fake. But in the end, his reactions were close to those he'd had in Dartmoor. That time he launched on Moriarty in Riley's flat, John truly believed he would kill him if he caught him. Unfortunately, he hadn't.

In any case, Sherlock had been troubled for sure, but not by the things he should've been most worried about according to John. So he did have something else on his mind the whole time, and although John thought back then that it was just him being his brilliant self and figuring things out, he realises now that there might be a whole dimension of the sordid affair that _he_ has missed _–_ he, stupid, ordinary John Watson.

Sherlock must have known Moriarty wanted to drive him to commit suicide. Hell, _Mycroft_ must have known! Only John hadn't guessed, even though it was perfectly logical, once Moriarty had destroyed Sherlock's reputation. What _wasn't_ logical was that Sherlock would jump. What could have Moriarty possibly told him that day on the rooftop to convince him to off himself? How did he ever manage that?

Because Sherlock wasn't suicidal, of that John was dead certain. Not the Sherlock he knew. But John had been so sure the consulting detective wouldn't be the type to use drug, and yet he had been an addict... So maybe he would commit suicide under certain circumstances.

Well, obviously. John gulps back the bitterness crawling up his throat. The other strange thing is that Moriarty killed himself too. No matter how much he ponders, John cannot make any sense out of it. If he had won, why would he too commit suicide? Perhaps he truly was a complete wacko and wished to die along with his archenemy, so he planned everything in order to get Sherlock to accept this insane double-suicide. But here John hits a wall again... How could he possibly have persuaded Sherlock to go along with his mad request?

Then there was that bogus phone call. John feels a surge of raw pain every time he recalls it, and he has dreamed so many times about it that he feels as if it's become part of his nightly routine. "I'm a fake..." John knows the tremor and the tears in Sherlock's voice will haunt him until the day he dies. He cherishes it; cherishes the ache it brings.

Sherlock lied to him that day and told him to spread the word. Was Moriarty there, still alive, his snipers hidden somewhere and forcing Sherlock to tell John whatever the madman asked of him? But what was the point, since he was going to die anyway? Surely he must've known by that point...

Oh.

John stops dead in his tracks and freezes, feeling suddenly very cold. Sherlock had kept telling him not to come any closer, not to cross the street. Why would he do that? He wasn't cruel to the point of wanting him to witness his fall helplessly. There had to be a reason.

Sherlock couldn't have been the target of Moriarty's snipers if the whole point was to kill him anyway. He would've rather taken the bullet than bend to his enemy's whims. If there had been any targets at all, they must have been people he cared about.

John closes his eyes and clenches his fists.

"_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

_"No. _Friends_ protect people."_

Those had been his last words to him before that phony call – his _note_.

"_You machine!"_

Ignoring the pain washing over him, John picks his phone and dials Lestrade's number. He'll have to thank Mrs. Hudson later for insisting he took it, 'just in case'.

"Hello, Greg. This is John. I was wondering if you'd like to go out drinking with me tonight."

* * *

><p><em><em>If I was 17 I could find it in between<br>The cushions of somebody's couch  
>I could find it, I could find it<br>If I was 17 I could find it in a dream  
>A dime a dozen kind of love<br>I could find it I could find it__

* * *

><p>Lestrade seems inconceivably glad to meet John at their usual pub – the one he and Mike go to now and then since he's been back from Afghanistan. Well. Not so much anymore. John makes a mental note to call Mike too once he's settled in 221B.<p>

"So, how's everything? The work, your wife... It's been a while," John begins.

Lestrade sighs, shrugging.

"The work's crazy without Sherlock, and the yard is a mess since that scandal."

"You mean Detective Inspectors asking him for help?"

"No. I mean the police arresting an innocent who committed suicide the next day."

Before the uncomfortable silence stretches too much, Lestrade goes on quickly:

"As for the wife, well... Technically she's not exactly my wife anymore."

"Oh, so you finally concluded the divorce then? Of course, that was a while ago. I should've remembered. It wasn't with her you'd gone on holiday that time you joined us in Dartmoor."

"Wait, did I tell you that?"

"Sherlock told me that."

"Oh. Right."

They look at each other, and break into chuckles.

"It's great to see you again," Lestrade tells him. John smiles apologetically.

"Yeah. I'm sorry I was so rude the last time we met."

The D.I. shakes his head as he puts his glass back onto the bar.

"There's no need. You weren't rude, you were just... not interested."

"I am now."

Lestrade arches an eyebrow.

"What?"

"About how you proved Sherlock wasn't a fake. Or rather, about what happened the day he... jumped."

Lestrade runs a hand in his hair awkwardly.

"Well, that's not exactly the same thing. We don't know his motives, and that's why it took so long to convince the jury – and the press – that he was a true genius. Why would a true genius commit suicide if he wasn't a fake? Then, there's your testimony and that phone call you got..."

"Wait, did that make it into the report?"

Lestrade shook his head.

"Of course not. You didn't say it to the D.I., but to the friend, right?"

John looks away, remembering how he certainly didn't have very friendly feelings towards Lestrade at that time, holding him partly responsible for Sherlock's death.

"So? What have you got?"

"Nothing. As far as the reason he committed suicide is concerned, we've got nothing."

John stares at his glass, frowning.

"I mean, you're more likely to know something than I am," Lestrade goes on. "We're not talking about evidence here, or facts, but his actual motivations."

"You'd known him for longer than I had."

"Yeah, but I didn't _live_ with him. I think he was closer to you than he ever was to anyone, even me or his landlady. Well, he may have had friends before."

"That Victor Trevor guy."

"Who?"

"In the article. _Riley_'s article. Victor Trevor was mentioned as the first friend of Sherlock Holmes, but they parted suddenly after university."

"I think Mycroft told me about him. Rather as Sherlock's first real case than as a friend, but..."

John cannot help but stiffen slightly at the mention of the elder Holmes.

"Mycroft never told me anything about Sherlock's past."

Lestrade shrugs.

"He kidnapped me when I first met his junkie brother. Or perhaps a week later. Asked me to 'look after him'."

"Did he offer you money?"

The D.I. gives him a strange look. "No. No, but he advertised quite emphatically his amazing deductive skills, and how useful that would be to the police, rather than _against_ the police."

"I see."

"I suppose he did the same with you – I mean, you actually _moved in_ with Sherlock. Mycroft must've thought he was getting a brother-in-law or something!" He laughs.

"Actually, I think he did."

Lestrade almost chokes on his drink.

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Asked me what my intentions were. And if by any chance I wouldn't be interested in spying on Sherlock for him."

"Yeah, that sounds familiar."

"What did you tell him?"

"Piss off."

"That's something the Holmes must be used to hearing," John notes, shaking his head.

"Speaking of Mycroft... If anyone knows something about Sherlock's motives, I thought it'd be you. But since you don't... He'd know, wouldn't he?"

John's face falls. He does nothing to quash the fury that erupts in his chest.

"I'm not asking him anything. If I ever see him again, I think I will kill him. I almost did."

Lestrade gapes, and John's lips stretch into a smirk.

"That was intended for the friend, too."

Lestrade smiles back, a sparkle in his eyes as he holds up his glass.

"Of course. Cheers!"

* * *

><p><em><em>But I'm not 17<br>And I lost it in between the birthday cakes  
>And past mistakes that roll on by<em>_

* * *

><p>John moves back to Baker street the next day, and notices the place has been dusted all over again. He brings his suitcase directly to the upper room, finding the bed already made. Dear, dear Mrs. Hudson. The flat no longer seems dead; just lacking. It always will. And that's precisely why John decided to move back in.<p>

Everything here talks of Sherlock. He's incredibly glad Mrs. Hudson (and, he must admit, Mycroft) didn't follow his advice when he wrote that note and said they should just get rid of everything. If they had, he would've had nowhere to go. _Homeless._ He's spent the past few months feeling that way, whether in his little rented room or at Chris's. He's been running away from 221B all this time, without realising that it's the only place where he'll ever feel _home_. The only place he ever did feel home, in fact. His parents had been loving, but not very present, and he couldn't remember feeling home even in his own room back then. Everything felt rather impersonal, and they'd been moving a lot because of their jobs. He never really got attached to a house, and even if he did love his parents, he didn't miss them when he went to med school or when he enrolled in the army. Except on a very few occasions, he couldn't remember ever being truly close to his sister either.

When he'd met Sherlock, his life was completely empty. He couldn't imagine living anywhere but in London, and yet his room was filled with nothingness, pretty much like his everyday routine. He really should be thanking the gods that Mike stopped him in the park that day. John had seen him sitting on the bench, but hadn't felt like chatting at all. But thanks to him, he was introduced to the most brilliant and eccentric man he ever met.

Even before John knew Sherlock was a genius, and fantastic as a consulting detective, he'd been hooked. With hindsight, he sees that Sherlock must have been trying to make an impression from day one – and had been quite successful, indeed. He'd been showing off, and since he hadn't made a grand entrance, he'd probably decided he should be striking in his exit_._ Seriously, was that comment about the riding crop strictly necessary? It was obviously made to arouse curiosity. Sherlock had seized him completely in one glance, so he must have known exactly what would make him interested in the offer.

John isn't vain enough to believe for one second that Sherlock was interested in him too and wanted _him_ as a flatmate. He just wanted a flatmate, full stop. And as he'd told Mike himself, who would want him as a flatmate? Well... he saw John and he knew this man probably could.

John smiles, remembering his own bewilderment that day, and Mike's amused smile. "Yep, he's always like that." And he was, indeed. Such a child, too. A brilliant, reckless, proud and candid child, who didn't shun the world, but just didn't get ordinary people's thought process because it was so illogical. John was hooked on the very first day, and became addicted within a week. "Should we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" John smiles. As if. Sherlock would never marry. It's just too common for him.

John's eyes widen, and he swallows. Of course he would never marry now. But surrounded with his belongings, his scent, and all the memories their living-room held, John finds that death hasn't torn everything away from him. He regrets that Sherlock isn't the type to write down things or to keep documents. John was always the one taking notes and recording things. Everything Sherlock needed was on his 'hard-drive'. Well, there's no way John will have access to that now. So what has he left?

Mycroft. Since he's blabbered about his brother to Moriarty of all people, he certainly could do the same for John. But the doctor knows the moment he sees him he'll feel like killing him. Probably would. So that isn't an option.

What else? He tried to find something Sherlock had been interested in, and that he didn't know much about. Something he could learn, perhaps. There's chemistry, for one thing... but John, as a doctor, already has basic knowledge in that field, and isn't exactly interested in experimenting, especially considering how the kitchen ended up looking every time Sherlock did one of his 'experiments'. Not to mention John wasn't particularly fond of cut fingers in the jam and heads in the fridge.

What else did he like? John realises now that all Sherlock ever talked about was the Work. Everything he learned or did was for the Work: chemistry, criminology, the history of war and politics and strategy, the streets of London...

The streets of London. That could've seemed so random to anyone else, but London was Sherlock's ground. John was impressed during their very first case to see to what extent his soon-to-be flatmate knew his way in the city. On numerous other occasions, it struck him that Sherlock would know London in its every details, even places where you least expected to see him, like pubs, hookah bars, gambling-dens, casinos... OK, so maybe it wasn't so crazy, because he must have been following potential criminals around or something similar. Still, Sherlock remembered even flower shops and bakeries, so it wasn't entirely criminal-oriented. Or was it?

In any case, that is something John can start with. London.

And so he goes out and roams the streets all afternoon, taking notes and drawing maps in the notebook he's brought, because _he_ isn't a genius and wouldn't just remember everything with one look. In fact, he's pretty sure Sherlock would've noticed much more details and things to take down, had he been with him. John doesn't really care, though. He isn't doing it for potential cases, but to try and see things the way Sherlock did; to have even just a small parcel of the knowledge he had. To get closer to him, somehow.

Sherlock studied London for the Work, but he loved the city. And so does John. Each of them had been looking for a flatmate precisely because they didn't want to live anywhere else. Sherlock had chosen London as his (play?)ground, so it had to mean something. And John only wants to learn more about the man he's lost so prematurely.

By the end of the day, he's spoken to many homeless people, trying to get them to talk about Sherlock. But not all of them knew him personally. He tried the few spots he remembered from their cases, but didn't find any of the people he knew. Maybe they don't trust him. It would sound rather crazy if he told them he wanted to track the traces of a ghost. They'd laugh.

One doesn't. John meets him on the way back home, sitting cross-legged at a street corner, smoking. The moment he mentions Sherlock Holmes, the man's face lights up.

"You must be Dr. John Watson! Never read your blog of course, not like I can afford a computer... But I've heard of it, I've heard of it! You've probably never heard of me, though. My name's Shinwell Johnson, at your service."

John bends and shakes his extended hand. He's surprised to see how strong the man truly is – he certainly doesn't look it, but it is quite obvious from his grip that he is very well-build.

"I'm indebted to Mr. Holmes, y'see. And now that he's gone, if there's anything I can do for you..."

"What do you mean indebted?"

"Well..."

Shinwell looks away with embarrassment, scratching his cap, and pauses. John waits patiently.

"Y'see, served two terms at Parkhurst in my youth – nothing too serious of course, but not something you'd put on your resume."

John doesn't make any comment, although the 'in my youth' part makes him smile. The man looks much younger than John.

"Anyway, because of that the police always thinks you're the culprit when they investigate something and you just happen to be there, if y'see what I mean. And I just happened to be there and they wanted to put me inside for _murder_, nothing less!"

"Let me guess, Sherlock Holmes cleared your name?" John smiles.

"Exactly! So I told him he could always count on me. I'm not very smart like he was y'see, but I can still be useful to get information or pass on messages. He didn't require my services much, though."

"I see. Well, I'm not very smart either, so I don't think I'll be solving any cases for which I'd need your help, but thanks for offering."

"You want to know more about him, right?"

John was about to take his leave, but the question throws him off balance and he stops in his tracks.

"What makes you say that?"

Shinwell shrugs.

"Well, that's what people usually want when they ask strangers if they knew someone who was close to them and died."

"Right."

"I can't tell you much, but the head of the Baker Street irregulars is called Wiggins. Don't see him much around these days, so I don't really know where you can find him, but I guess he'd know more about him than any of us. Otherwise he wouldn't be the head, would he?"

John guesses the 'Baker Street irregulars' is just the name of Sherlock's homeless network. He had no idea it had a name. Sherlock never told him. John can almost hear him: _What would have been the point? It was irrelevant_.

"Yes, I guess. Well, thank you, Shinwell. Here, for another packet."

The man pockets the money and grins broadly.

"Thanks, doctor. I'm glad not all doctors say it's bad for your health!"

"It _is_ bad for your health. But there are so many other things that can kill you anyway."

John nods him goodbye, this time leaving for good, and doesn't notice the man's thoughtful gaze on him as he murmurs:

"You have no idea..."

* * *

><p><em><em>But if I look to my right<br>Will I see the one I fight for?  
>If I look to my right or If I turn to my left<br>Will I see that I've kept my heart locked up?  
><em>_

* * *

><p>That night, John falls asleep in the armchair while reading the paper, and it is way past midnight when he wakes up with a start after a nightmare. He cannot remember his dream at all, but the feeling of unease remains, and he stands up to get a glass of water. As he goes into the kitchen, he turns his head to the right, and his eyes meet the door to Sherlock's room.<p>

He hasn't gone in there ever since the drug incident. But he can't live in a flat with an off-limit room. This is ridiculous. And just like John made the effort at first to utter Sherlock's name, and then utter it in the same sentence as 'jumped' and 'dead', he knows he must not let his room become a taboo.

Taking a deep breath, and forgetting all about his glass of water, he walks down the corridor and opens the door. It's dark inside, but he can still make out the bed – he notices with some surprise that it has been made, too. His lips curve into a smile as he understands. Dear Mrs. Hudson. She hadn't known which room he'd choose for himself, and so had prepared the beds in both.

Just like the last time he came, the typical smell hits him, and he still can't quite fathom it because Sherlock didn't spend much time in his room. He didn't use cologne either, nor any recognizable deodorant, so there shouldn't be a smell. But there is. Throughout the flat and especially in his room, there's that typical smell that had been his, and his only. John doesn't know why it lingers even after all these months. He hopes it will never fade.

Before he knows it he is walking to the wardrobe and opening it to check if his shirts are all still there. It is a stupid thing to do, because obviously they wouldn't have gone anywhere. On some level, John knows this isn't the true reason he opened the wardrobe, but he doesn't care. He was right. The scent there is much stronger, as if Sherlock had just walked into the room. Gingerly, he runs his hand over the silky fabric, and takes one out at random. He can't even see the colour in this darkness, but it isn't the colour that attracts him.

Because yes, he's attracted. Drawn to the lingering scent like a moth to the flame. He sits on the bed and spreads the shirt on the white sheet, distinguishing its shape clearly, now. It's just a shape. Just the shirt of a dead man.

John feels the wetness on his cheeks but doesn't mind.

As he lies down on the bed next to the shirt, his face buried against a non-existent chest, he knows he must look pathetic.

And still, he doesn't mind.

* * *

><p><em><em>Locked up so tight <em>_

* * *

><p><em><em>.<br>__

__.  
><em>_

__.  
><em>_

_**tbc**_


	22. Condemnant quod non intellegunt

**A/N: **The case mentioned in Harry's thoughts - The Aluminium Crutch - can be found on John's blog, created by Joseph Lidster.  
>This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron.<p>

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"__  
><em>

_**Condemnant quod non intellegunt: **__"they condemn, because they do not understand'_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXII: <strong>_Condemnant quod non intellegunt_

_song: Always you , by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I wait in the rain, but I don't complain<br>Because I wait for you  
>And I don't feel the pain, you're like novacane<br>And I got you_

* * *

><p>"Really, you shouldn't be so apprehensive about it, love," soothed Chris.<p>

The couple was talking in the kitchen. Chris was washing the dishes while Harry was pacing back and forth in disquiet – and had been doing so for almost an hour now. Chris had been reading the news online, then cooking, and Harry had kept walking in circles, getting all worked up about how she could ask John to come to their wedding and be her best man.

"You don't understand," Harry retorted, wringing her hands nervously, "the way he was at my birthday was extraordinary, we've never..."

"... had a good relationship, I know. But he stayed here, you know. Do you realize he did it for you?"

Harry tilted her head, puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"God, look at him, Harry! He's proud, he's strong, he's got nerves of steel – a man who didn't attempt suicide while he was breaking and going through hell, but when he'd finally got to the other side and seen it wasn't worth going on anymore. Why do you think he put up with this? Living with his relative and her girlfriend when _he _has lost the only person that mattered... And as you said, you're not even close to begin with. So what do you think?"

"I don't know," Harry muttered sheepishly.

"Well, I'll tell you. He stayed because he realized _you_ wouldn't be happy if he left. You'd worry all the time and you wouldn't enjoy the happiness that was finally yours. You kept throwing in his face that it was because of him you resumed drinking–"

"But that's true!" Harry protested.

Chris nodded.

"Yeah, it's true. It's your way to deal with things when you're not all right."

Harry looked away in shame, her eyes burning, and Chris noticed. She dried her hands and went up to her, hugging her tightly.

"Hey. I'm not chiding you here. I'm telling you your brother loves you. And I love you, too."

They were leaning in to kiss when they heard John entering the flat and closing the heavy steel door behind him. They jumped. Chris looked Harry in the eyes. _It's okay. I'm here to back you up. Go for it._

"Hello, girls."

"Hi John!" Chris said energetically, a smile on her face. "How was your day?"

"Good, very good."

Both women eyed him insistently. He smiled, amused.

"I'm moving."

"I knew it!" exclaimed Harry.

John shrugged.

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did! I'm sure you'd move back in just out of spite for that stuck-up know-it-all."

"No, that's something _you_ would do."

"Ha ha ha!"

He shook his head.

"But seriously, are you going to be all right by yourself? You're not going to forget to eat, are you?"

"Harry..." Chris warned her, rolling her eyes.

"What? I was just asking. I would certainly die if I couldn't eat your delicious cooking anymore!"

"Oh, so that's why you're sticking around!"

"Of course. What else?"

John chuckled.

"You guys already sound like an old married couple."

They stared for a second, then burst out laughing.

"Well, actually..."

"Chris proposed to me on my birthday!" Harry announced, feeling warmth spreading throughout her chest and unable to hold back anymore.

John's eyes widened.

"When were you planning on telling me?"

Harry exchanged a glance with Chris, worried he would take this badly. Before she could make up her mind on how to put this, it seemed to dawn on him.

"Oh. I see. You didn't want to make me feel like I had to move out."

"Look, John..."

But he was already giggling. Harry gaped.

"What? What's so funny?" she pressed, not even trying to hide her disbelief. He was _giggling_? God, she shouldn't have worried herself so much!

"You're just so silly, really... it's very sweet of you, but really, you should've just told me. Congratulations. I'm very happy for you."

"You'll be coming to the wedding, right?" she asked earnestly.

He arched an eyebrow.

"Of course, but you can't really have an official ceremony, can you? Unless you're thinking of a civil partnership?"

"We're going to Canada," Chris put in, and the determination in her voice was so sexy Harry felt like kissing her smirk again and again.

"To Ca... What? When?" John stuttered.

"This summer. You'll be there, won't you?"

Worry flashed in her eyes, even though she tried to sound cheerful. _Please say yes... please look happy when you say so... _

"I'd like you to be my best man," she added.

This time he gaped but then nodded, straightening his military stance.

"Of course, Harry. I'll be honoured."

She hadn't felt so happy in her brother's presence in ages, and grinned widely.

* * *

><p><em>It was always you<br>It was always you_

* * *

><p>She hadn't seen John since then – it had been a week or so, and he was to come for dinner on Friday night. It felt weird, suddenly not to have him around at home, even if she enjoyed the recovered privacy with her fiancée.<p>

Harry had been texting her brother every day at lunch break, and had just sent her text-of-the-day, as he called them. He'd warned her he wouldn't always bother answering, especially if she kept this frequency up. He'd truly seemed to be doing better, and that was completely beyond her comprehension. She couldn't imagine how moving back into the flat in which you'd lived with the person you'd loved when they were gone forever would help.

It had, though. That much was obvious from the improvement in John's mood. He still looked like a man who'd seen too much, she thought, and who'd somehow aged prematurely. It wasn't that he seemed older than he actually was – he wasn't that young anymore after all – but there was a depth in his gaze that betrayed something boundless within him. Sorrow, perhaps. Or maybe love.

She couldn't find a better word. If she knew one thing about her brother, it was that he wasn't gay. He'd never been attracted to men, and it was quite obvious from the way he'd interacted with his flatmate that he wasn't just nursing 'forbidden desires' towards him. Yet he seemed so enthused when he'd first mentioned Sherlock Holmes on his blog. It was quite striking, really: before him, endless emptiness, and the moment he'd burst into John's life, he was the sparkle that ignited fire in her brother. It was amazing how dazzled John had sounded in his first posts about the consulting detective. Even his nurse, Bill Murray, had asked him if he'd turned gay or something. And from the way he depicted his new flatmate, it sure didn't sound absurd.

Except that John wasn't gay. Harry hadn't known him to be a Casanova, and she'd found out from Bill. But she had seen with girlfriends and with male friends, and no one could be straighter than her brother. He was completely tolerant, of course, and he hadn't said anything when she had come out in high school. To be quite honest, he probably didn't care, she mused. He was already in med school by then, and as open-minded as he was upright. She'd always admired him, and it had been a relief when he didn't shun her because of her sexuality. It would have been a blow.

However, she could have never imagined that he would fall for a man one day. Tolerance was one thing, attraction, another entirely.

She wished she'd met the man, wished she'd seen them together. She'd only pictured Sherlock through John's blog, seen him in newspapers, on his website, too... God, she hadn't grasped _a thing_ about what that crazy genius wrote on his site. Seriously, tobacco ashes? And that completely maddening 'case' he reported with a guy killing another one on stage but actually it was the murderer who'd been killed or something... It had given Harry a headache, and she had read it _three times_. Without understanding a word of it in the end.

If Sherlock was like that in every day life, she had to admit her brother was even more twisted than she'd thought. But who was she to talk anyway?

All in all, she could think of only one possible explanation about John's relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Obviously, John hadn't realized (or hadn't wanted to admit to himself, perhaps) his physical attraction for his flatmate before he was dead. He already acted like the perfect boyfriend with him, or maybe even more like a husband. She frowned and shook her head. No, that didn't sound like it either. What, then? Best friends? Best friends could die for each other without being romantically involved, of course. And obviously John would've died for Sherlock without hesitation. But there was something more. Something best friends don't usually share – or if they do, it still makes them something more: _craving_. John was dazzled by Sherlock's presence, and he craved it. He'd drop everything, job, girlfriend, to rush to his side even if most of the time, it was just to send a stupid text, all because he thought, it seemed, that maybe the one time he wouldn't go he'd regret it his whole life. And also, even if he probably wouldn't admit it, because he enjoyed being with Sherlock much more than anything, Harry mused, a smirk on her lips.

Yup. A man who drops every girlfriend repeatedly for his best mate is suspicious to the least. With hindsight (okay, and also because she'd discussed it with Chris, and Chris was _so_ much better than her with this kind of things), Harry thought her brother hadn't so much been oblivious or full of bad faith: rather, _it didn't matter_. Those were his own words, he'd said it to Bill. _I'm not gay. I don't know if he is, it doesn't matter_. Indeed. But Sherlock Holmes was insufferable, even John couldn't say otherwise. Yet it wasn't enough to deter him. Violin rousing him suddenly at three in the morning, experiments that blew the kitchen up regularly, heads in the fridge (Harry still only half-believed him when he told her: even a _wacko_ doesn't keep heads in his fridge), not one of all the reasons Sherlock had told John's old buddy from uni (what was his name again? Mickael?) had driven John away. He'd stayed because his whole life was there, and he couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

She smiled proudly. Her big brother was the only real person she knew – not a book or a movie character – who had transcended his own sexuality _unwittingly _because the person he was drawn to like a moth to a flame happened to be of the same gender. Harry had never believed that such things could exist – sex is about hormones, and nobody chooses who they're attracted to. You can love someone dearly, but if you're not gay, you're not gay: the love you feel is more of the brotherly type. Harry always told her friends, girls or boys, that she loved them – and she didn't mean it like a love confession. There was no _passion_ behind it.

In John's love for Sherlock, there had been passion. Enthusiasm, exhilaration, thrill, _want_... Chris's theory was that sexual attraction just came last, as a logical consequence from the craving. John was addicted to Sherlock and everything he represented, they were complementary. It wasn't sex for sex, like he enjoyed sex with all his girlfriends and even women he hadn't dated – that kind of sex was just normal and healthy. Sex was fun and pleasant and always a nice moment of intimacy shared with someone close, even if it wasn't the love or your life.

But from what Chris had told Harry about John's dreams – and yes, that had been disturbing, and she'd kindly asked her not to mention her brother's fantasies again in front of her – whatever he felt physically for Sherlock had nothing to do with that normal, healthy, human urge. It was the continuation of the thrill and the fascination, of the pleasure and exhilaration Sherlock brought in John's life. Basically, he cared so much and more than that, was so hooked up already that it seemed only logical he'd want more, want to get closer to the flame, and burn. Especially when the person's presence had been so tragically and prematurely been ripped away from him. Harry couldn't imagine worse mutilation. In the end, he'd always chosen Sherlock over anyone else, and it seemed that by moving back to Baker street, he was saying that it would _always_ be him, and no one else.

Her phone vibrated and roused her from her musing. She thought it might be John answering her text, but it was Chris.

**S.O.S. That young and handsome client who keeps asking me out and doesn't want to believe I like GIRLS is here again. Please come pick me up and help me convince him? ;)**

Harry's eyes widened at the text, and she burst out laughing.

**LOL! I'll be there at 10 then. XOXOXO**

* * *

><p><em>Time and again I thought that the end was just around the bend<br>You showed me there's more, yeah, I got more in store  
>And you got me<em>

* * *

><p>As she walked down the street briskly, her eyes stopped on a poster on a newspaper kiosk – a front page with the headings <em>IS THE EVIL QUEEN GONE?<em> That 'Snow white' case again. Harry hadn't paid that much attention to it, what with Sherlock's death, her brother's depression, his attempt at suicide...

She shuddered. It was still difficult for her to think of it. John had always been the strong, responsible one. The one who didn't fuck up. The one who succeeded, who was stable. She'd never seen him shattered before; not when he came back from Afghanistan, wounded; not when their parents died, and he was the one to take care of things, take care of the funeral, the house, take care of _her. _John had always been brave and struggled in the most dire situations. That was why it had been so terrifying to see him a shell; not fighting; not even trying to put up a front; _uncaring_. Like the world could come to an end and he wouldn't even give a damn.

At first she had wanted to be the perfect sibling, be there for him, encourage him to be crazy and selfish. But then he hadn't changed, had only got worse, more and more detached. Harry had felt this deeply, as if it were a personal failure of hers. As if the one time her brother needed her, she had failed him, and she didn't know what to do to help him get better. She had been so lucky to have Chris during this period of her life. If she hadn't, Harry didn't know how she would've faced it all. Not that it prevented her from starting to drink again, but...

She swallowed down the bitterness that had spread in her mouth. She wasn't proud of it, had hated herself for it – had hated John for it – but drinking was her primary coping mechanism, and she'd had a lot to cope with back then. She knew she was a failure, knew she didn't deserve Chris and could never hope to stand on the same level as her brother. She hadn't been surprised when John had refused that she met Sherlock giving as a pretext that the man didn't know how to behave and that if he and Harry ever met, blood would be shed. She knew it was most likely because John was ashamed of her that he hadn't wanted her to meet his flatmate. It had still stung.

Yet she had hoped that after his death, John would allow himself to rely on her. She had thought, stupidly, that since he had seen her at her worst, many, many times, he wouldn't be too proud to let her help him now that he needed it. It had been a ridiculous assumption. John couldn't care less about pride then, couldn't care about anything, really, and there was nothing Harry had to offer.

It had hurt, and it still did. Feeling so helpless. Feeling that no matter how many times she had relied on her brother, he didn't trust her enough to let her reciprocate – he'd treated her like a stranger, like all his friends, and it was a stranger, a man John had claimed to _hate, _who had told her the truth. That her brother had tried to end his life, and hadn't even said goodbye to her; hadn't even left a note.

Shee thought she would never be able to forgive him. The betrayal was too deep, her shock too violent. His life. His _death_. It was too big a thing to be forgiven, ever.

But then Chris had showed her that forgiveness had nothing to do with it. That this was about love; and could Harry still love her brother? Did she still love him?

The answer to that had been obvious. It was thanks to Chris that things were better between them now. It was always thanks to Chris.

Harry realised she had been standing in front of the kiosk, lost in thoughts, and shook her head to chase the bitter memories away. Chris would laugh if she were here – she always teased her about switching off easily. With a private smile, Harry walked to the exposed papers and looked through the article rapidly. The killing had stopped, although all those who'd been arrested for murder did not appear to have any kind of link whatsoever. The police was still out of their depths, she thought. At least it had stopped, but it was still rather chilling. She shivered and put the paper back.

Just as she turned to go, a short, plump man who was walking hurriedly bumped into her and almost knocked her off her feet.

"Hey! Can't you look where you're going?"

The man stopped in his track and seemed absolutely appalled to have run into a lady.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry miss, I wasn't paying attention and I'm so late you see, please do accept my apologies."

Harry goggled, speechless. The stranger was now rummaging in his pockets and finally found what he was looking for – a case full of namecards. He held one out to her, and she took it, nonplussed.

"I really must go now, but please contact me if you wish to seek compensation!"

In a second he was gone, scurrying along the street hastily. She stared for a second, then shrugged. Oh well, there were crackpots everywhere, nowadays_. _It reminded her of Sherlock, and so of John, and her mood wasn't so bright anymore as she walked back home.

* * *

><p><em>It was always you<br>It was always you_

* * *

><p>"So, your shift is over now?"<p>

"Yes, that's why I'm out. Waiting for someone."

"Oh? That girlfriend of yours, perhaps?" the man said with an alluring smile, his tone derisory.

Chris sighed, shaking her head in mock despair.

"When will you get it, really?"

"Mm, maybe we could find out around a drink tonight?"

At this moment Chris saw Harry walking up to them with a Cheshire cat-like grin on her face, and smirked. Bursting in on them without saying a word, she ran to her fiancée and kissed her passionately. Chris kissed back, chuckling into the embrace.

"You never do things halfway, do you?" she murmured against her lover's lips as she broke away.

Harry turned to the stranger, eyeing him from head to toe, and glared possessively.

"Sorry man, she's taken."

He laughed good-heartedly, although he had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

"My bad, Chris, my bad."

Harry glowered, glancing at Chris. _You're on a first-name basis?_

Chris was still chuckling gleefully, obviously very amused by the whole scene. Eyes sparkling, she turned to the man and said:

"Believe me now? This is my fiancée, Harry Watson. Harry, this is Mr. I-flirt-with-all-and-never-give-up, Sebastian Moran."

Harry smirked triumphantly (_**I **__am her fiancée_) and shook his hand in goodwill.

.

* * *

><p><em>It was always you<br>It was always you _

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_**tbc**_


	23. Fluctuat nec mergitur

**A/N: Bit long, this chapter... The longest till now I think. And I know I'm messing with the second-person narrative too - but that's fully intended, I'll let you guess as to why ;) Sorry this chapter isn't as happy as the previous one :) In two chapters we have John's POV, and it's definitely not as dark! Even if the fact that John's chapters are getting lighter and Sherlock's darker is pretty dark in itself. Hope you enjoy! And thanks to all reviewers, you guys are great :)**

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

**Fluctuat nec mergitur: **_"Tossed by the waves but not sinking" _

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXIII: <strong>_**Fluctuat nec mergitur**_

_song: Porcelain fists , by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>"Follow your heart", he said.<br>Your heart will take you there.  
>"Swallow your pride", he said.<br>For pride is anything but rare._

* * *

><p>"Why would I do that?"<p>

"Because you're an idiot."

_An exchanged smile. _

Sherlock knew right away he was dreaming. John was no longer here to smirk like that. _Wake up. _

"People want to know you're human."

"Why?"

_Stop it. Wake up. _

"You'll never go and get the groceries, will you?"

"Umm... nope."

"Damn you."

"Don't pretend you didn't already know that when you moved in."

"Of course. Everyone who meets you knows you're a dick from day one, right?"

You looked up in surprise, somewhat offended – even if what John said was actually true. But the doctor was smiling amusedly, almost _tenderly._ A twitch betrayed his lingering annoyance and when you locked gaze he rolled his eyes and looked away. Dreaming-Sherlock looked away from dreamt-Sherlock, who was watching John's back with unusual intensity. _Delete_.

The image faded and was replaced with John standing by the window in the living-room, watching out for any police car that'd come to arrest Sherlock. To arrest _you._

"You're worried they're right about me."

"No."

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

John turned away and looked out of the window again.

"No I'm not."

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too!" Dreamt-Sherlock slammed his hand onto the table. "Can't you _see_ what's going on?"

John glanced at him and you wished he would leave that bloody window and focus all his attention on _you_.

"No, I know you're for real."

"A hundred percent?" Dreamt-Sherlock's voice was snappy, but it sounded unbearably pleading and insecure to Dreaming-Sherlock. _Wake up. _

"Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

They locked eyes. John's mouth twitched with the trace of a smile, and Dreamt-Sherlock's lips mirrored it. John turned away. Dreaming-Sherlock too.

The image faded again. You were running hand in hand, the police on your heels.

"Take my hand!"

John grabbed Dreamt-Sherlock's hand as you kept racing.

"Now people will _definitely_ talk."

Did it matter? Not to Dreamt-Sherlock, thought Dreaming-Sherlock bitterly, not wishing to recognize himself in the pitiful figure who'd taken the first opportunity (_no, the last..._ a voice whispers in the back his head, and he no longer knows whose head it is) to hold his flatmate's hand. It wasn't strictly necessary, and he knew it. He could've grabbed his wrist but he wanted his hand, so he'd feel like John was holding him _back_. Hence the asking, too. Ridiculous in such a situation of emergency. _Take my hand!_ It must have sounded like the consulting detective's usual peremptory demands to John at the time. But Dreaming-Sherlock knew it was a request. Dreamt-Sherlock wanted John to take his hand. Not the other way round.

"The gun!"

Dreaming-Sherlock was brought back forcefully to the scene thronging in.

"Leave it!"

He watched as they ran down a side alley, watched Dreamt-Sherlock leap up onto the top of a dustbin and vault over the top of the railings blocking their way. You watched. _He. You. ... who?_

"Sherlock, wait!"

As idiotic Dreamt-Sherlock dropped to the other side, you were forced to watch John, whose face had almost smashed against the railings, grab his partner's coat and drag him closer, glaring him in the eye. Dreaming-Sherlock felt a twinge of jealousy in his chest, wishing it were _his_ eyes John was plunging into. Your eyes. _No! Shut up! WAKE UP!_

"We're going to need to coordinate."

You rolled and fell off the bed, gasping for air. It took you almost a minute to catch your breath, lying on the floor and trembling. You closed your eyes, swallowing with some difficulty. This just couldn't be allowed to continue. You wouldn't allow it.

How ironic. You were the one who was dead, and yet John was the one haunting you.

You'd found that rolling in your bed until you fell from it was a good way to get away from the dreams, but sometimes your sleeping conditions didn't make it possible – and sometimes, you didn't even realize you were dreaming. Mostly during nightmares. You wouldn't be aware of it until you were abruptly shocked out of it – by John screaming, John being shot, John drowning, John falling off from a rooftop, or John walking away from you hand in hand with someone else...

_Stop. Delete. Delete. DELETE._

__**Are you sure you want**___** to permanently **___**delete**___** all the items and subfolders in the JOHN'S HANDS folder?**_

Sherlock looked away and switched to the IOU file instead. He needed to identify all of them and gain their trust, otherwise they'd keep in hiding and wouldn't reveal their identities, which _Mycroft_ was most interested in. Interested enough to sell him to Moriarty anyway. Sherlock didn't bear him a grudge for it. Moriarty would always have found a way, even if it hadn't involved his own brother giving his archenemy the tools to dig Sherlock's grave.

You grinned bitingly. Dear Mycroft was probably regretting his decision now, wasn't he? You wondered whether his regret was more linked to the fact that he'd given you the chance to never be bored and rule over the criminal world, which meant that now you were a threat and an enemy to the nation; or if he was troubled and remorseful because he could no longer watch over you – _patronize_ you – and it felt like his baby brother was now out of his reach. Probably both.

Thinking of Mycroft to distract yourself from John wasn't a very good idea, for it either ignited anger in you (and not because of the betrayal – just because it was _Mycroft_) or turned you into a child again and made you relive long forgotten memories of sibling rivalry.

IOU again then. _I owe you again... Shut up! _You didn't owe anything. To anyone.

"_We're going to need to coordi..."_

You pressed the _**YES**_ button.

* * *

><p><em>So I walked into your eyes without a raincoat on<br>And in the salty sea, I find you're all but gone._

* * *

><p><em>July 11, 2013 - Berlin<em>

As he walked briskly down the street, Sherlock unfolded the letter he'd just received – addressed to Kate Gilsberg, a brilliant young American woman currently studying in Berlin. Or so she told her family back in the States. She was in fact living in Austria with her boyfriend and had dropped her studies, but she kept the Berlin address to get the money her family sent her. Girls really talked too much when they were drunk and lonely after a fight with their boyfriend, didn't they?

It was news from Wiggins. After reading the poem twice (who was the idiot who insisted on having such a code again? … right), Sherlock frowned. People were moving, and that was never good. Molly had visited Mycroft, but not because she was in danger: she was worried about _him. _How quaint. However Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as he pictured Mycroft's face upon seeing his own name card with a note on the back in his own handwriting. Sherlock had always been good at copying perfectly anybody's writing.

What was more preoccupying was that Moran himself had been seen repeatedly in the company of Christiane Davis, Harry Watson's new girlfriend – soon to be wife, according to the engagement rings they'd been wearing lately. Wiggins said he'd given one of his name cards to Harry, but that probably wouldn't help much if Moran had something specific in mind.

And he must have. Why else would he be trying to get closer to _John_'s sister? Sherlock's face darkened. Sebastian Moran. He and Sherlock were playing a dangerous game. Whatever the task Moriarty had left him to do after his death, he was certainly very keen to fulfil it. But Sherlock had hoped that what dear old Jim had in store concerned him, and him alone. Not...

Moran was often away from him on missions – but that meant he also had the freedom to go wherever he wanted in between their encounters. Sherlock frowned. He couldn't have the man killed, because he was a necessary tool, but his hidden agenda clearly represented a threat. It shouldn't have been so complicated – Moran was no genius after all – but it seemed Moriarty had planned many things ahead, and in his new pet's moves on his mental chess board, Sherlock was seeing the shadow of his dead nemesis.

He suddenly turned and entered a coffee shop. Someone was following him - _again. _

Upon touching the door handle, he noticed he could no longer feel his right hand.

That wasn't exactly right, he thought, smiling perfunctorily to the waitress as he went in. He could feel it to some extent, but it had turned completely cold. He could feel whatever he was touching, but not the hand itself, as part of his body. He shrugged it off. After all, his left hand still remained cold since he'd left Austria, for some unfathomable reason. Sherlock thought he'd probably deleted the thing that could explain it. It didn't matter. Both hands were cold now. The balance was restored.

* * *

><p><em>Take my hand, you're treading water<br>I feel I am slipping away from underneath my toes  
>Nobody knows<br>Where is it she goes?_

* * *

><p>You were sure you had managed to shake off your pursuers when you went back to the hotel that night – but over breakfast the very next morning, you realized you'd been wrong. Naturally, you were well aware of the faces of all the assassins who'd been sent after you. This was the first time any of them actually caught up, though. You had never forgotten the Black Lotus incident, and that if you're still alive when assassins are trying to get you, it either means they're not really trying, or they're doing a very poor job.<p>

You always hid, and traveled incognito – although you didn't even know what that meant anymore, since you no longer had a 'real' identity. You didn't only _travel_ incognito, you _lived_ incognito. Mycroft's people were to be avoided too, and in fact all the "angels"'s people in general (_they_ were the 'good guys' now). But as if that wasn't enough, you also had to deal with the "devils" sent by some IOU members to kill you.

However, if danger surrounded you, it meant you were never bored. You'd found recently that fear was such a great way to dispel boredom. You always feared for your life and for... John's. That was also why you couldn't let John know you were alive. He would want to come and help.

You considered it would've been extremely selfish to tell John you were alive, just so you wouldn't be dead to him... Just so you could tell yourself at night that John wasn't moving on, that he still thought of you and _waited_ for you. Because that would never happen. John wasn't one to wait. He'd come. He'd get killed – and _his_ death would be for real.

Sherlock's grip tightened on the cup he was holding. He closed his eyes. _Delete the mental image. Delete the considerations about 'what would happen if'. Delete. Delete. DELETE. _

He opened his eyes.

The two men who had just entered the hotel lunch room were dressed as tourists. They belonged to the last type – _devils_. They found him earlier than expected, Sherlock thought, fairly annoyed. To suppress an irritated sigh, he brought the cup to his lips and drank up the last of his coffee. After giving up on milk, he'd stopped drinking tea altogether and now only drank coffee. Black, _no_ sugar.

Because black and two sugars was what Molly brought you when you met John on that fateful day in the lab. At first,you were really excited that you'd found someone who could be a potential flatmate. People whose profile told you that they could perhaps bear to live with you (and with whom you could bear to live with, too) weren't that numerous after all – and that's an understatement. But memories are tricky. Even though the coffee has no sugar in it, your mind is brought back to that day, and it is unwittingly that you follow your train of thought. As Dr. John Watson represented an opportunity to share the flat with someone, you'd thought you'd behave and be _nice_ to the ex-soldier. But then John had implied you were an amateur, and, proud as you were, you'd snapped. You'd turned back into your usual haughty self and showed off your skills, deducing John himself. You truly believed then that you'd spoiled everything – and just when you were thinking you'd never be able to shut up long enough to ever find a flatmate... _**"That was amazing."**_

Sherlock snapped back to the present with a start. _John's_ voice had sounded so close... he thought he'd heard it. _Damn it! _ There were _killers _in the room, for God's sake, how could he have been distracted now? Cold fury mingled with pain. His own stupidity angered him to no end, but somewhere deep inside it also _hurt_.

Dropping some cash on the table, he stood and left, going to the bathroom where he'd spotted a window through which he could escape. Something was hammering in his chest and he no longer knew whether it betrayed fear, excitement, exasperation or pain. He tried to look for something to delete to alleviate the crushing sensation... But there was nothing to delete. No gesture, no memory, no sound, no smell – nothing. Nothing but John. And Sherlock couldn't delete John. He knew.

He had tried.

* * *

><p><em>Locked in the bathroom stall<br>Your back against the wall.  
>Cold tiles beneath your knees,<br>Your body broke your fall._

* * *

><p><em>July 13, 2013 – Copenhagen <em>

Yngvar Nørgaard wasn't an unhappy man. Father of two healthy children, married to one of the most beautiful women in all Denmark (the fact that she also came from a powerful family didn't count to the least, of course...), he deemed his life quite felicitous. He'd been High Representative of the Union for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy for two years now, and he had worked very hard to obtain such a position.

But such a job implied a lot of stress too, which made some means to relieve it necessary. Yngvar presently needed such means very much, and so he'd decided to go to the usual place. Namely, a bar. Nothing fancy, nothing bad either of course – just a nice bar in a rather infamous neighborhood, where many people went to... meet, just meet, and talk. Yngvar liked making new friends.

As he walked down the street he thought he felt a presence watching him and sent nervous glances here and there. He had nothing to hide of course, nothing to hide at all, but... One was never too careful. And Yngvar was especially prudent. To be fair, he had more to fear than a legitimately indignant wife.

The bar was cosy and its twisted setting allowed some privacy to its clients. Yngvar had a favorite table he considered his own, just on the right when you entered the place, but today, he saw with displeasure that it was already occupied by... people getting to know each other. This in itself was enough to aggravate him – he was a rather irascible man, and he'd come to find release. Yngvar detested to have his plans frustrated, and was about to turn and leave when his eye was caught by a figure sitting on a stool at the bar, drinking a Martini and talking animatedly with the barman. Yngvar's eyes widened and he licked his lips unconsciously. He'd never seen that one here before. The stranger was tall, with pale blond hair, his skin porcelain white and his eyes the clearest blue he'd ever seen – and that was something, considering blue eyes were _just_ his type, and he'd seen many...

His wife had blue eyes, too. But he always preferred them on men.

Walking up to the bar with a conquering step, thrusting out his chest, he went to sit on the stool next to the Adonis and smiled broadly to the barman.

"Hi, Eluf. A Vodka red bull for me. And won't you refill that young man's glass for me?"

Ygnar spoke as if he owned the place. He almost did, after all - he put so much money into it. The barman smiled back knowingly and complied.

"I was just telling Jeff here that we have very generous customers. The lad was asking if the business was good."

"Haha, well, that it is, isn't it, Eluf? Hi, my name is Yngvar."

"Hi," the stranger replied with a charming smile, "I'm Jeff."

"Your accent is very good, I can't tell where you come from. American?"

"Canadian."

"Ah, almost spot-on!"

"Almost."

They locked eyes, grinning. Eluf brought their drinks, and Jeff held up his glass to Yngvar, who brought his one glass to his lips, never breaking eye contact. They drank.

"So, what brings you in Copenhagen, Jeff?"

"Well, I was looking for a job. I had some friends here and so..."

He trailed off, licking a drop of Martini on the corner of his mouth.

"What about you, Yng... Yngvar?"

"Yeah, Yngvar," he answered fondly, almost patronizingly, with an amused smirk to which Jeff replied with a boyish grin.

"What do you do?"

"Oh, something boring, believe me."

"But you earn a lot of money."

"What makes you say that?"

Jeff shrugged, waving his hand vaguely in his direction.

"Just your overall air. You're classy and you look rich."

Yngvar burst out laughing, soon followed by Eluf.

"Funny boy, isn't he?" the barman said.

"Oh yeah, never at a loss for words, uh?" Yngvar went on, eyeing the young man from head to toe, evaluating.

Jeff smirked slightly.

"Well, I wouldn't say never..."

They locked eyes again and Yngvar gulped down the rest of his drink. As he put the glass back on the counter, his other hand crept up his neighbour's muscular thigh, slowly moving closer to the groin. Jeff stopped his hand but squeezed it.

"Not in public," he said, blushing.

Yngvar wiped his mouth.

"Of course, please forgive me. Want to go somewhere quieter and a bit more private?"

Jeff cast his eyes down shyly but nodded fervently. Yngvar smirked smugly. This was going to be a good night after all. Much beyond his expectations.

He paid Eluf and left with Jeff, holding the door for him, his hand groping his arse in the process. Yngvar knew a nice little place for this kind of things – a small, discreet hotel where no question was asked, where no one complained about the noise, and where you could rent the room by the hour. Tonight he'd probably stay until morning, though.

Jeff was incredibly alluring during the cab drive, not refusing him but always stopping his hand or mouth when he got too close.

"Are you teasing me?" Yngvar asked, eyes already glazed with lust.

"Not yet."

Jeff smirked and Yngvar was lost in imagining everything those lips could do.

The moment they entered the hotel room, he pinned him against the door, parting his legs and grinding their bodies. Jeff locked the door behind him.

Suddenly he slid his knee between their two bodies and pushed back violently, throwing Yngvar to the ground. Dumbfounded, Yngvar stared a second, then burst out laughing.

"Oh, so that's how you like it?"

"I'd advise you zip your trousers up, _Yngvar_," Jeff said in an icy tone.

"Aw, come on boy, don't tell me you want to top?"

The younger man smiled broadly.

"Turn around, Yngvar."

He did, and paled dramatically as he saw in the mirror facing him the red dot of a sniper appear on his forehead.

"What the..."

"Now, Yngvar, why don't we sit down and chat a bit?"

Yngvar goggled, nonplussed and more terrified by the second. Jeff took off the blond wig that hid silky black curls, and threw his leather jacket to the side. He sat in the imposing armchair and pointed to a stool near the bed.

"I said: take a seat."

Yngvar gulped and complied shakily, looking out of the window nervously, trying to catch a glimpse of the sniper.

"I want your attention," the threatening voice cut in. "So... you've been avoiding me."

"No, I..."

"Quiet." The tone was cold, the glare piercing. Yngvar's throat tightened and he fell silent.

"You didn't answer my calls, I was very disappointed in you."

He made a sad face, shaking his head.

"You weren't where I wanted you to be when I wanted you to be there."

"I'm sorry–"

"Well, that doesn't make up for it, does it?"

The sardonic tone was back. He stood up, smiling wolfishly, circling the stool Yngvar was sitting on.

"But don't worry, my dear, I am magnanimous. In fact, I came to give you a piece of friendly advice. Those who owe me and no longer acknowledge their debt..."

He tapped his fingers on the trembling man's shoulder, accentuating each word.

"... I. Will. Destroy. Those who keep their engagement..."

He gave a sweet, creepy smile, tilting his head to the side.

"... still have all Daddy's love."

The bullet didn't pierce Yngvar's forehead, but only his left arm.

* * *

><p><em>Spitting into your own reflection gazing back<br>Inside your porcelain fists, your palms begin to crack._

* * *

><p>"What a bore," Sherlock complained as he joined Moran in the car.<p>

"Leather suits you, though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If it's to make such stupid comments, just shut up, Seb."

"Fine."

And he did, to Sherlock's greatest relief. He'd had enough idiots rambling today, and his tolerance limit had long been crossed. Being surrounded by morons exhausted him – John being the one exception. _Stop. Not again. _

"So, how was London?" he said suddenly, turning towards Moran.

Sebastian arched an eyebrow, but soon focused on the road again.

"Fine. Everything went well."

"Good."

"But you already know that."

"Of course."

They fell silent.

If Sherlock couldn't delete John himself, he found he could delete the links. Just like Moriarty's web: the network between the memories, what bound them to emotions. The _echoes._ That, he could erase from his hard-drive. He decided he should process methodically. First of all, expunge all the warmth and fluttering feeling associated with the concept of 'friend' since he met John. The word hadn't had such a resonance before the ex-soldier entered his life. Just like John had woven several layers of meanings within very simple words, such as 'milk', 'friend', 'gun', 'blog', and even 'twat' or 'prick', adding unnecessary colours to the fabric of Sherlock's everyday life, Sherlock could un-weave it all. He could unravel the colours, separate all concepts from the sentimental package that was attached to them, until the links came loose and a new energy, a restored dynamism could flow and thrive on the ruins of the old fossilized structure.

Sherlock got off the car a few hours later in a small Danish village.

"I'll see you in Naples, then. Don't forget to eat the apple when it's ripe."

Sebastian smirked.

"I won't. See you."

Sherlock didn't watch the car leave and instead walked towards the inn, his coat blowing in the wind. He'd stopped turning his collar up. His cheekbones and cheeks were never warm anymore. Somewhere in his mind, a thought flashed, but died away just as soon; the thought that perhaps those losses were related, somehow.

* * *

><p><em>So take my hand, you're treading water<br>And I feel sand slipping underneath my toes...  
>Nobody knows;<br>Where is it she goes?_

* * *

><p><em>July 28, 2013 – Ankara <em>

Of course, the one assassin who managed to actually catch you just _had_ to be an old acquaintance. _The Golem_.

This annoyed you to no end, because naturally it reminded you of...

You shot but the monster didn't seem to even notice. Cursing under your breath, you tried to look for an escape route. _You can't escape. He's found you. He'll find you again. You've got to..._

That day in the observatory where you'd learned all about supernovas, John had been there to save you. Well, he didn't exactly rescue you, but still, if he hadn't been there, you would've probably been dead by now. _And would it really have been such a waste? __**Don't you dare!**_ You jumped, barely dodging the giant's arm trying to catch you. Yo heard it. You truly heard it. John's voice. _**That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever. **_

This was unacceptable. You let the Golem run to you and at the last moment shot him in the right eye. A tearing howl ripped the night.

_**Why would I do that? **_

Then in the left eye. Finally in the mouth that was open and screaming right before him. The monster crashed on the ground at his feet. Only then did you notice that he'd been strangling you, drenching you in his blood.

_**Because you're an idiot. **_

You could feel the dark liquid running down your face and throat. You looked down and watched as the gigantic body thrashed with death throes.

_**Dinner?**_

The ethereally pale body now lied motionless, his skin glowing in the moonlight, as white and bloodied as yours.

_**Starving.**_

You retched and the voice died. Clenching your fists, you watched the corpse that looked like your old friend the skull, and so much like yourself too... You watched, letting memories of John flow away with the assassin's blood.

* * *

><p><em>When those sad eyes start to close.<br>Nobody knows;  
>Where is it she goes?<em>

* * *

><p>You spent the rest of the night on your knees in the bathroom, throwing up every now and then. You couldn't know this had been part of John's everyday life just a few months prior. Your informants weren't close enough to know anything so intimate as how John Watson spent his nights. They didn't have access to his flat.<p>

Wiggins had told you John had moved back to Baker Street. Thinking of this now was the last straw, and you threw up again. And cried. Every time you threw up, you cried, and cried, and cried. It was purely physiological, you didn't feel sad or lonely or anything like that – you felt nothing, nothing at all...

You'd just killed a man and you were still drenched in his blood.

You felt sick and it didn't make sense because you _knew_ that this was the right thing to do, because you'd had no choice, you would've been killed if you hadn't killed first. _And so what? It wouldn't be a great loss... __**No... No. Shut, just shut up! The first time we met, the First. Time. We. Met. You knew all about my sis... **_

"NO, _YOU_ SHUT UP!"

You jumped, surprised by the sudden roar. _Your_ sudden roar. You fell back against the wall limply. _Crazy. I'm becoming crazy. __Clinically_ _crazy. _

You stood up shakily and wobbled to the shower, under which you stayed until daybreak. When you finally returned to your room, your face was paler than ever, your gaze haunted. But you'd stopped shaking. As you searched the drawer for a pair of socks, your eye caught a red glint. You froze. _Not another one..._ Taking the envelope carefully, you forgot all about socks and went to sit on the bed. Another red magpie seal. By now, every time you saw it, you thought that the stupid bird was actually _smirking_ at you. You tore the seal snappily.

Another fairy tale. _What a surprise. _You wavered a moment. What if you just burnt it?

_But you know you don't want to burn it... _a sing song voice whispered somewhere in his mind.

Your face darkened. _Shut up. I don't want to hear _your_ voice. _Ignoring the gloating smirk on the mental image of your archenemy, you started reading.

_**¤~Nix Nought Nothing~¤**_

**_THERE_**_ once lived a king and a queen as many a one has been. They were long married and had no children; but at last a baby-boy came to the queen when the king was away in the far countries. The queen would not christen the boy till the king came back, and she said, "We will just call him _Nix Nought Nothing_ until his father comes home." But it was long before he came home, and the boy had grown a nice little laddie. At length the king was on his way back; but he had a big river to cross, and there was a whirlpool, and he could not get over the water. But a giant came up to him, and said "I'll carry you over." But the king said: "What's your pay?" "O give me Nix, Nought, Nothing, and I will carry you over the water on my back." The king had never heard that his son was called Nix Nought Nothing, and so he said: "O, I'll give you that and my thanks into the bargain." When the king got home again, he was very happy to see his wife again, and his young son. She told him that she had not given the child any name, but just Nix Nought Nothing, until he should come home again himself. The poor king was in a terrible case. He said: "What have I done? I promised to give the giant who carried me over the river on his back, Nix Nought Nothing." The king and the queen were sad and sorry, but they said: "When the giant comes we will give him the hen-wife's boy; he will never know the difference." The next day the giant came to claim the king's promise, and he sent for the hen-wife's boy; and the giant went away with the boy on his back. He travelled till he came to a big stone, and there he sat down to rest. He said,_

_"Hidge, Hodge, on my back, what time of day is that?"_

_The poor little boy said: "It is the time that my mother, the hen- wife, takes up the eggs for the queen's breakfast."_

_The Giant was very angry, and dashed the boy's head on the stone and killed him._

_So he went back in a tower of a temper and this time they gave him the gardener's boy. He went off with him on his back till they got to the stone again when the giant sat down to rest. And he said:_

_"Hidge, Hodge, on my back, what time of day do you make that?"_

_The gardener's boy said: "Sure it's the time that my mother takes up the vegetables for the queen's dinner." Then the giant was right wild and dashed his brains out on the stone._

_Then the giant went back to the king's house in a terrible temper and said he would destroy them all if they did not give him Nix Nought Nothing this time. They had to do it; and when he came to the big stone, the giant said: "What time of day is that?" Nix Nought Nothing said: "It is the time that my father the king will be sitting down to supper." The giant said: "I've got the right one now;" and took Nix Nought Nothing to his own house and brought him up till he was a man._

_The giant had a bonny daughter, and she and the lad grew very fond of each other. The giant said one day to Nix Nought Nothing: "I've work for you to-morrow. There is a stable seven miles long and seven miles broad, and it has not been cleaned for seven years, and you must clean it to-morrow, or I will have you for my supper."_

_The giant's daughter went out next morning with the lad's breakfast, and found him in a terrible state, for always as he cleaned out a bit, it just fell in again. The giant's daughter said she would help him, and she cried all the beasts in the field, and all the fowls of the air, and in a minute they all came, and carried away everything that was in the stable and made it all clean before the giant came home. He said: "Shame on the wit that helped you; but I have a worse job for you to-morrow." Then he said to Nix Nought Nothing: "There's a lake seven miles long, and seven miles deep, and seven miles broad, and you must drain it to-morrow by nightfall, or else I'll have you for my supper." Nix Nought Nothing began early next morning and tried to lave the water with his pail, but the lake was never getting any less, and he didn't know what to do; but the giant's daughter called on all the fish in the sea to come and drink the water, and very soon they drank it dry. When the giant saw the work done he was in a rage, and said: "I've a worse job for you to-morrow; there is a tree, seven miles high, and no branch on it, till you get to the top, and there is a nest with seven eggs in it, and you must bring down all the eggs without breaking one, or else I'll have you for my supper." At first the giant's daughter did not know how to help Nix Nought Nothing; but she cut off first her fingers and then her toes, and made steps of them, and he clomb the tree and got all the eggs safe till he came just to the bottom, and then one was broken. So they determined to run away together and after the giant's daughter had tidied up her hair a bit and got her magic flask they set out together as fast as they could run. And they hadn't got but three fields away when they looked back and saw the giant walking along at top speed after them. "Quick, quick," called out the giant's daughter, "take my comb from my hair and throw it down." Nix Nought Nothing took her comb from her hair and threw it down, and out of every one of its prongs there sprung up a fine thick briar in the way of the giant. You may be sure it took him a long time to work his way through the briar bush and by the time he was well through Nix Nought Nothing and his sweetheart had run on a tidy step away from him. But he soon came along after them and was just like to catch 'em up when the giant's daughter called out to Nix Nought Nothing, "Take my hair dagger and throw it down, quick, quick." So Nix Nought Nothing threw down the hair dagger and out of it grew as quick as lightning a thick hedge of sharp razors placed criss-cross. The giant had to tread very cautiously to get through all this and meanwhile the young lovers ran on, and on, and on, till they were nearly out of sight. But at last the giant was through, and it wasn't long before he was like to catch them up. But just as he was stretching out his hand to catch Nix Nought Nothing his daughter took out her magic flask and dashed it on the ground. And as it broke out of it welled a big, big wave that grew, and that grew, till it reached the giant's waist and then his neck, and when it got to his head, he was drowned dead, and dead, and dead indeed. So he goes out of the story._

_But Nix Nought Nothing fled on till where do you think they came to? Why, to near the castle of Nix Nought Nothing's father and mother. But the giant's daughter was so weary that she couldn't move a step further. So Nix Nought Nothing told her to wait there while he went and found out a lodging for the night. And he went on towards the lights of the castle, and on the way he came to the cottage of the hen-wife whose boy had had his brains dashed out by the giant. Now she knew Nix Nought Nothing in a moment, and hated him because he was the cause of her son's death. So when he asked his way to the castle she put a spell upon him, and when he got to the castle, no sooner was he let in than he fell down dead asleep upon a bench in the hall. The king and queen tried all they could do to wake him up, but all in vain. So the king promised that if any lady could wake him up she should marry him. Meanwhile the giant's daughter was waiting and waiting for him to come back. And she went up into a tree to watch for him. The gardener's daughter, going to draw water in the well, saw the shadow of the lady in the water and thought it was herself, and said; "If I'm so bonny, if I'm so brave, why do you send me to draw water?" So she threw down her pail and went to see if she could wed the sleeping stranger. And she went to the hen-wife, who taught her an unspelling catch which would keep Nix Nought Nothing awake as long as the gardener's daughter liked. So she went up to the castle and sang her catch and Nix Nought Nothing was wakened for a bit and they promised to wed him to the gardener's daughter. Meanwhile the gardener went down to draw water from the well and saw the shadow of the lady in the water. So he looks up and finds her, and he brought the lady from the tree, and led her into his house. And he told her that a stranger was to marry his daughter, and took her up to the castle and showed her the man: and it was Nix Nought Nothing asleep in a chair. And she saw him, and cried to him: "Waken, waken, and speak to me!" But he would not waken, and soon she cried:_

_"I cleaned the stable, I laved the lake, and I clomb the tree,  
>And all for the love of thee,<br>And thou wilt not waken and speak to me."_

_The king and the queen heard this, and came to the bonny young lady, and she said:_

_"I cannot get Nix Nought Nothing to speak to me for all that I can do."_

_Then were they greatly astonished when she spoke of Nix Nought Nothing, and asked where he was, and she said: "He that sits there in the chair." Then they ran to him and kissed him and called him their own dear son; so they called for the gardener's daughter and made her sing her charm, and he wakened, and told them all that the giant's daughter had done for him, and of all her kindness. Then they took her in their arms and kissed her, and said she should now be their daughter, for their son should marry her. But they sent for the hen- wife and put her to death. And they lived happy all their days._

_. . . _

_**So, liked it? Thought it be fun to play the 'Who's who?' game. That's not very hard, is it? The king who sold his own son to the giant, and the giant playing games with the little prince... The daughter is a harder one. Here's a hint: who cried and cried and cried saying "Waken, waken, and speak to me!"? Uhm? Perhaps someone who could now say **_**"Nothing****_ happened to me". _**

_**Now tell me, Sherlock... will nothing come in the end? **_**:D**

You stared at the last few words. Then you ripped the letter and threw it into the dustbin, calmly, methodically. You didn't care about kings and princes and giants. You never did.

_**Poor little Sherly... **_

Oh dear, you were really losing it, weren't you?

_**No, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing... One more miracle, Sherlock, for me.**_

You grabbed a pair of socks and sat at the table.

_**Don't ... be ... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this. **_

_I think I'll do just that_, you thought. Concentrating, you went to the deepest part of your mind, the secret locked room. Nothing was hidden there. There was nothing. Nothing but one big red button.

You considered it for a while. You were very calm when you pressed it.

There was an explosion like you'd never seen any – perhaps something like a supernova, you mused, before the thought was drowned into the blinding flow.

The button had been pressed, and Sherlock had effectively blown up his mind palace. _To transform it into an archipelago. _

Who cared for a palace anyway? Pirates ruled over the sea and the currents between islands. They didn't care for warm hands holding a gun to save their life, or for a place somewhere ashore that they'd call home. _They_ held the gun, and were unattached – the sea their womb.

The sea, their tomb.

* * *

><p><em>When those sad eyes close <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

xXx

_**tbc**_


	24. Cetera desunt

**A/N: **Mycroft's POVs give me a headache too. It's just so hard to be as quick as he is. A bit of introspection here and some flashbacks from Sherlock's childhood ;) Hope you enjoy! Reviewers are loved and keep me going :) Thanks to you all! _~¤Zoffoli_

**...**

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_**_  
><em>

**_Cetera desunt: _**_"the rest is missing"  
><em>

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXIV: <strong>**_Cetera desunt_**

_Highway, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

"Mycroft, what do you want to do when you're older?"

"Rule the world."

"Dull."

Twelve-year-old Mycroft Holmes snorted.

"What do _you_ want to do, then?"

Five-year-old Sherlock Holmes grinned and exclaimed:

"I wanna be a pirate!"

Mycroft never forgot.

* * *

><p><em>On a highway along the Atlantic <em>

_I'm rifling through these last 17 years  
>The radio waxes romantic<em>

_Its lullabies fill our eyes with tears_

* * *

><p>"Sherlock! Qu'est-ce que tu as fait à la chambre de ton frère?"<br>_"Sherlock! What have you done to your brother's room?"_

Poor Mme Dessaut, their (seventeenth) French governess, had just burst into Sherlock's "laboratory", where Mycroft, age fourteen, and Sherlock, age seven, were presently having a chat in Latin.

"Insanis." _You're insane._

"Licet." _It's allowed. _

"Quae stupiditas!" _Don't be ridiculous!_

Sherlock shrugged under his tainted scrubs that was too large for him, rolling his eyes behind his goggles before returning to his microscope.

"Praeterita mutare non possumus." _What's done is done._

"Statim flavit mea locum, Sherlock!" _You just blew up my room, Sherlock!_

"Hoc ad profectum scientae." Sherlock smirked. _It's for the progress of Science._

Mycroft, still wearing his school uniform, shook his head with a mixture of annoyance and pity.

"Es perdidit causa." _You're a lot cause_.

When Mycroft finally turned to the door, Mme Dessaut was long gone. Soon, they'd meet their eighteenth French governess.

"Sherlock, why can you never get as good grades as your brother?"

"Because he's not interested. Plus, I get good grades," Mycroft pointed out, as if that explained it all.

Mummy frowned in puzzlement. Interrupting his reading of Machiavelli's _Prince, _Mycroft, age 16, sighed and developed:

"I get good grades, so he'll do everything he can to get bad ones."

"But that's absurd!"

Mycroft shrugged, returning to his book.

"That's how he works. I would've thought you'd be aware by now."

"Sherlock, is that true? Say something!"

Not bothering to look up from his computer, on which he was getting bored playing chess against some alleged champion online, Sherlock replied:

"Oh, I thought you were doing fine just now, having that conversation between the two of you. Please continue. I'm busy."

Sherlock got As* in every subject for the rest of the school semester – then never bothered again. The point had been proved.

"Mycroft, do you hate me?"

Mycroft almost dropped his book, so surprised was he by his little brother's question.

"Of course I–"

"Let me reformulate this. I know you hate me, and I hate you, so we're even. But do you think I'm in essence detestable?"

The elder Holmes was completely disconcerted by the question. In the twelve years he'd known Sherlock, since his very birth, the infuriating child had never asked him such a thing. But Mycroft knew this was dangerous. That is, dangerous for his baby brother, whom he loved and could never, ever hate.

"Sentiments, Sherlock, _sentiments_. How many times have I warned you about this?"

"I'm not being sentimental!"

"Yes you are. This is your way of saying 'I don't have friends', 'Nobody loves me'."

"It is _not_!"

"Then why do you care? What does it matter whether it is in your essence or purely contingent?"

Mycroft still remembered the pallor of Sherlock's knuckles as he clenched his fists, and the daggers in his eyes.

"I hate you!"

The door was slammed and Mycroft knew his cute little brother would never come to him again. He ignored the pang, frowning it away, and after a few seconds of scowling, was perfectly satisfied with himself. _**"I hate you!" **_

_Better that than the contrary,_ he thought grimly. Resuming his reading, he tried to chase away the image of his brother crying from rage alone in his room. Mycroft did want Sherlock to trust him and love him, to consider him truly family. But he didn't want him to be any weaker – he was fragile enough as it was. _Asperger's syndrom_. It wasn't enough in Mycroft's eyes. Sherlock was a genius, and noticed and felt things no one ever noticed or felt. Well, Mycroft did notice. But he didn't feel as much. His temperament was much calmer and colder, when Sherlock's was all fiery. This was why Mycroft knew he'd have a 'better situation' and always get what he wanted. Sherlock didn't know what he wanted, or he wanted too much. His ploy was much more tragic – and much more dazzling, too.

Sherlock was brilliant in every sense of the world. Mycroft always thought family was sacred. But his baby brother was everything. If Sherlock wanted to wreck havoc in the world and be a pirate, then Mycroft would make sure to control this world in the shadow, so as to always keep a watch over him. _Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock. It makes you more vulnerable and hence weaker. _

He turned a page of the book he was only half-reading, pensive.

_You are my only weakness, Sherlock. _

* * *

><p><em>We don't say a word<br>There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard  
>And how you've grown my little bird<br>I'm regretting letting you fly _

* * *

><p>A stubborn, proud, hyperactive child. His only weakness. <em>A lost cause and a pirate.<em> Mycroft wondered to what extent the prophecy had become true.

Paris, Halifax, Mexico, Santa Elena, Brasilia, Yamoussoukro, Ghardia... Sherlock's latest route didn't make any sense. But it was unlikely his informants were wrong. Unless...

Frowning, Mycroft blinked at the world map he was presently conjuring up in his mind. Paris, Halifax... Then Mexico, Santa Elena... He sighed exasperatedly as a picture emerged from the little dots representing the cities. _A smiley face. _Mycroft's informants hadn't been wrong; they had been fooled. He stood up from his desk and paced the room in annoyance. Even now, he sometimes felt like slapping his aggravating little brother.

_This is no time to show me just how smart you are, Sherlock. Don't you see we're on the same side? _

"_**Strangely enough... no."**_

Mycroft fell into his chair. Sherlock was no longer playing with fire. He'd become the fire itself. And he was doing nothing to signify that he was still Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and not Moriarty, consulting criminal. _And whose fault is that?_

Mycroft clicked his tongue. He couldn't be held responsible for Sherlock's immature attitude. But he still felt guilty about overestimating his little brother's capacities of cooperation. Sherlock had agreed to the game after all. Mycroft wouldn't have sold him for Queen and country otherwise. He believed in Sherlock's ability to overcome this whole ordeal brilliantly, if sulkily in appearance. Objectively, consulting criminal couldn't be less exciting than consulting detective after all. The thrill would be there, and as a bonus Sherlock would be completely out of Big Brother's reach.

The elder Holmes's face darkened. As always, Sherlock had reacted excessively. He'd faked his own death, and he probably didn't have much choice for that matter. But then he'd disappeared from the surface of the earth for months, to the point where even Mycroft wondered if he wasn't truly dead. Retrospectively, of course he'd been doing it on purpose. Sherlock knew Mycroft cared, but he hated the perversion of it all.

It was true that Mycroft worried constantly about his crazy, reckless baby brother. But it was also true that they'd always had a relation of rivalry, and that _controlling_ Sherlock's life was one of Mycroft's greatest joys.

_People will get hurt_, he'd said. Yes, people would get hurt if they ever played seriously against each other. It had happened. And Mycroft never wished to see it happen again. The current situation, however, was very close to a confrontation. Mycroft never felt hatred for Sherlock, although he knew Sherlock did hate him. He felt however a lot of anger towards him, sometimes. Naturally, Sherlock was exasperating for anyone who knew him. But what made it all the more unbearable to Mycroft was that he understood his brother deeply. He knew how his mind worked. He knew he had come to a point where all he could do to dispel the famished shadows of boredom that ate him away from the inside was to put his life on the line as a stake before playing the game and show how clever he was. He was a daredevil. At first Mycroft had thought this was just part of the "I'll do everything contrary to what Mycroft does" logic: since he enjoyed comfort and didn't care much for leg work, Sherlock would lead a life in which he'd throw everything he possessed in the game every time.

But it was more than that. If someone attempted to get rid of him by taking his life, it meant the person acknowledged his presence somehow. Sherlock had come to the conclusion that all that was worth something in his life was his brain. His intellect. Cocaine was fun, but didn't allow him to feel like he was part of the world – to feel like he took part in the game. The Work he'd created for himself was perfect. It allowed him to interact with people who had to recognize his ability, whether they liked it or not. Sherlock never liked to be the puppet master, above everyone else and fundamentally _alone. _He liked to play the game and win. He liked to be stimulated – needed to be, or he felt like his brain was rotting away.

He was a true genius indeed, Mycroft mused, but such a child, still. Because he couldn't deal with all the emotional stimuli, he'd turned into a one-tracked, obsessive prodigy, and yet he was still mostly ruled by his emotions. Anger. Frustration. Pride. Excitement. He avoided compassion like the plague, but didn't realize he was already quite passionate himself.

It angered Mycroft to no end because his beloved, gifted younger brother kept risking his life as if it were nothing, all because he couldn't stand boredom. _Hyperactive, indeed. _

His attitude had always given Mycroft a headache, but now... He rubbed his temples.

What if he had really sold Sherlock to snap him out of his blissful obliviousness? That was certainly what Moriarty had planned anyway. To take him away from Baker Street. To shock him into the realization that he cared, indeed, and not just a little, only to rip him away from those he cared about. Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had realized already... That Moriarty had been jealous, not of him for having found 'friends', but of said 'friends' for taking Sherlock away from _him. _Rather possessive, for an archenemy. But hadn't Mycroft been just the same? He'd been jealous and wary of Sherlock's interest in Moriarty for sure. He didn't care about the consulting criminal at all, but he found such an interest on his brother's part very, very dangerous. As it had proved to be.

* * *

><p><em>6 pounds and 7 ounces.<br>A ball of bones and flesh and tears were you!  
>Now your hands, your tiny pink hands<br>Grew larger than my hands ever grew._

* * *

><p>His train of thought was interrupted by a knock on the door.<p>

"Come in."

Wiggins entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"We've figured out some more about the Snow White case. It seems the murderers who were eradicated weren't all killed by Sebastian Moran but also probably by the 'Evil Queen' herself."

Mycroft only half-listened. He knew all that already, and this was merely a confirmation. He also doubted Sherlock had given such a stupid order – kill every killer – for he obviously would know someone would be behind it. Sherlock could be cruel to some extent, as he enjoyed power play greatly, but he'd never do something stupid just to kill people. It would made him feel like an idiot, and he certainly did not enjoy _that_. Mycroft smiled.

"Are you listening, sir?" Wiggins asked with a scowl.

"Of course I am. I guess Sherlock is also aware that Miss Hooper is worried about him and this whole apple matter?"

Wiggins shrugged.

"How would I know? It is possible he's been informed."

The British government smiled thinly. He'd picked the head of the Baker Street Irregulars because he was a very smart man, as far as common people could be smart, but most of all because he was wholeheartedly devoted to Sherlock, even if the consulting detective didn't realize it. He probably wouldn't give his life away for him, Mycroft thought, but he would never betray him out of personal interest. In other words, unlike agents from the MIB, who spied on people for money, he could be tortured so as to change his mind, but he couldn't be bought. For that reason, he was very precious, and could be trusted for such delicate matters.

Of course, in this regard, Dr. John Watson was the most trustworthy of all. He'd probably sacrifice anything for Sherlock's sake. He would kill, give his life, and surely would never betray him even under torture. He was a soldier after all, and Mycroft had understood very early in time how _obstinate_ the man could be.

But because of that, he wouldn't be a very good subordinate. He wouldn't listen. Although he probably wasn't one to act rashly, he would still be very determined to challenge one's authority if he thought of something better to do. Sherlock hadn't told him anything because he'd known John wouldn't have waited home. He would've come with him, and he would've been a hindrance.

_Sherly, Sherly... You didn't listen, did you? And to say I believed Ms. Adler had got to you. _

Sherlock had been crazy, but strong in his own way, because he didn't mind risking everything every time he played the game. Then the time had come when there were things he didn't want to risk. This was the weakness of humans, Mycroft mused. John Hamish Watson would die some day, like every other mortal. Like he would. Like Sherlock would. He banned that last thought with a frown very much like Sherlock would ban the thought of John's death. They all knew it would happen eventually, and yet the thought was so unbearable they wished they would never see it happen.

And it seemed Moriarty had well understood all that. Oh, he'd been brilliant. Irene Adler had been a mere tool to verify what he'd already figured out. Sherlock had been (_very_) attracted to her, but hadn't fallen in love with her. He'd been confused and intrigued, but kept talking to _John_ in her very presence, when the doctor wasn't even there. He had almost been fooled, but in the end managed to reverse the situation – and thanks to why? To the Woman's own weakness: _him_. The whole Adler affair had been a masterful demonstration of the danger of _sentiments_. The only way to get to Mycroft was to use Sherlock against him. He couldn't possibly let anyone know that it was his very own little brother's stupidity which had caused such trouble.

Sherlock, John, Irene Adler, and himself... No matter what they all claimed, they had all cared about _someone_ in this affair. And they'd all lost something because of that. Moriarty couldn't have been any more brilliant and explicit. Without ever showing his face, he'd managed to show them all that they had a very dangerous weakness, and that he was aware of it. The message – and the implied warning – couldn't have been clearer. _The Virgin who won't realize he's in love with his flatmate. The Iceman who will not care for anyone... anyone except his brother. _

It was then that Mycroft had become aware of just how dangerous Moriarty truly was. Hence his 'kidnapping' and imprisonment for months. It wasn't only about I.O.U. – though mostly, if Mycroft had to be honest. Eventually, he had been made to choose between the nation's interest and his little brother. He trusted Sherlock, and thought that together, the two Holmes could beat Moriarty. But the criminal mastermind had his own agenda. He got what he wanted in the end. But so did Mycroft. Moriarty was dead, and Sherlock was alive. Except...

"Have you told him he moved back to Baker Street?" he said suddenly, ignoring the fact Wiggins was still in mid-sentence. Wiggins rolled his eyes.

"With all due respect, sir–"

"Good." Mycroft interrupted again. So he had. Maybe that would be a good incentive to bring Sherlock back – to remind him of who he was, and to make him hurry and be done with this whole I.O.U. mess and come back to 221B. Come back to John.

If Mycroft had believed in a higher power than himself, he would've prayed every day so his brother's life wouldn't turn out to be a tragedy. Sherlock certainly had the greatness and fragility of all tragic _dramatis persona_e. Moriarty must have thought so, too. He must have found him perfect and beautiful for the Fall.

But he hadn't seen it. He'd planned everything and hadn't seen the Fall. Someone as curious as Moriarty... he must've planned everything in advance and left his last will to someone. Someone who'd be as devoted to him as John Watson was to Sherlock Holmes... Mycroft's face darkened. _Sebastian Moran_. A very talented sniper, evidently.

"... and so we believe they have now left the country."

Mycroft looked pensive for a moment. He didn't like all those shadowy figures revolving around his baby brother.

"The 'Evil Queen' as you call them must be someone from I.O.U., who refuses to acknowledge the new Moriarty."

Wiggins frowned.

"But Mr. Sherlock isn't Moriarty, sir."

Mycroft turned to the window and replied darkly.

"I'm afraid he is, Wiggins. I'm afraid he is."

* * *

><p><em>We don't say a word<br>__There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard  
>And how you've grown my little bird<br>I'm regretting letting you fly_

* * *

><p>As always, it was late when Mycroft finally entered his very large flat, located just opposite the Diogenes Club on Pall Mall. Not only had he been very busy lately, but the whole business with Sherlock was just wearing him down. He was all at once playing for him, with him and against him. Fondness. Protectiveness. Rivalry. And now...<p>

Maybe Sherlock would effectively turn into a threat for all – but firstly, for himself. He'd always been so self-destructive. Mycroft had always enjoyed taking him in hand, even if he could never truly _tame_ him. Watching over him, controlling his life to some extent was always a source of pleasure, he had to admit. Sometimes he wished his brother would submit to him, because he was smarter and had more power after all. And sometimes, he secretly relished the fight Sherlock always put up, his wariness and acuteness. They knew each other too well, understood each other's thought process too well to have an amicable bond. If Sherlock had been phlegmatic, like himself, then things could have been different. But Sherlock had always been too passionate for his own good.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken," Mycroft had said on the day they thought Irene Adler had died. But he never wanted Sherlock's heart to be broken – because he did have a heart, and an expansive, powerful one which made him feel too much and eventually led him to rely on logic alone. Logic didn't hurt; it was clear and simple.

Sherlock's way of perceiving the world was close to what one would call a high-functioning autism. He was bewildered and confused by the world that surrounded him and especially by people. In order to observe, you must stand at some distance from the object of your scrutiny. Sherlock was always far. He was timid, unsociable, fierce and untamed, but more than that he didn't understand how other people thought because it was all so different from his own mind. He got used to being rejected and ostracised even before he started wondering _why_ he was so different and generally unliked, if not hated. A freak.

Mycroft always blended more easily because he knew how to talk to people and flatter their ego. He knew what people wanted to hear, what they liked, didn't like, and what they feared. He would gladly step back to control everything around him, and never felt _far_, but definitely _above_.

Now Sherlock was more alone than ever and he was playing Lucifer. Mycroft was starting to fear that he might even enjoy it, or come to enjoy it for lack of anything better. John Watson had had a very good influence on him – even if he was just as reckless and addicted to the thrill. But now that Sherlock knew he was dead to him and so wouldn't wait, knew that any mistake on his part could mean John's death or his own, he'd probably want to erase everything even remotely related to the doctor. Knowing him, he'd hurt too much, and would eventually cut himself not from everything that could still link him to John Watson, but from all feelings in general. That meant all considerations of good and evil would be disregarded as well, as useless and irrelevant in this situation. Sherlock couldn't delete the fact that he was doing this for John, but he could hide it away from his awareness, in order to focus completely on the task at hand without being distracted.

But if he didn't come back, who would remind him of it? If Mycroft had trusted Sherlock for deleting John properly, he wouldn't have been too worried. He would have thought it was too bad, because Sherlock obviously always craved love and attention, and John Watson was ready to give him all that, and more. Still, if Sherlock deleted John, then he would no longer suffer from their bond. The problem was that Mycroft did not believe Sherlock could manage to remove his feelings completely – not where John was concerned. No man could. When you started caring, you were doomed. But Mycroft knew Sherlock would try. He would try, and destroy everything in his wake.

He was interrupted by his phone vibrating. A call from Mummy. He sighed.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mycroft. You haven't been taking my calls, lately."

"I'm sorry, I've been busy."

"Well, you're always busy, aren't you?"

He didn't answer. There was nothing to say.

"I've been contacted _again_ by those ridiculous fellows from the '_I believe in Sherlock Holmes'_ group. Can't you do anything about that? I have no idea how they found my contact details, but this is intolerable."

"I see. Well, if you tell them you have no comment to make, I'm sure they'll–"

"I want my privacy back, Mycroft! Why did your brother have to go and make such a scandal? Now every time they call I have to be reminded that he's..."

Her voice broke. Mycroft didn't say a word, because he knew she had moved away the handset so he wouldn't hear her cry. It only took her a few seconds to regain her composure.

"I would appreciate it if you could do something about it," she said, her tone cold and sharp again.

"I will see what I can do."

"Take care of yourself, Mycroft. I wouldn't want my second son to overwork himself to death."

"I won't. Good night, Mummy."

"Good night."

Mycroft hung up. When he heard their own mother like this, he almost regretted...

No, he had made the right choice. Sherlock would be fine, if he stopped being so proud and stubborn.

Yes, he thought, it was all right. He regretted nothing. Nothing at all.

* * *

><p><em>I'm regretting letting you fly<em>

_On a highway_

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

**tbc**


	25. Usque ad sideras et usque ad inferos

**A/N: ****Okay, so I'm definitely behind schedule – but my exams are over now so I'll have more time to write, and that means more frequent updates! Hope you enjoy this chapter :) Please R&R! ~Zoffoli**

**...**

****Nutrisco et extinguo:**** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"__  
><em>

**_Usque ad sideras et usque ad inferos_****_: "_**_from the stars all the way down to hell", meaning everywhere_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is M for onanism.

****_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._ ****

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXV: <strong>**_Usque ad sideras et usque ad inferos_**

_song: Mosquito, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Mosquito, mosquito<br>Buzzing around  
>Landing on my knee<br>How can I truly be angry with you?  
>All you want is to be part of me<em>

* * *

><p><em>221B Baker Street, living-room<em>

The white sun rays of this September morning are filling the flat with a soft and cosy glow that makes the skull on the mantelpiece grin even wider and heightens the dust covering the pile of books and papers next to it. On the table lie several newspapers and a laptop which has stayed plugged in all night – probably because the owner typed on it until late and was too tired to turn it off.

The quietness of the room is shattered when a dishevelled man running down the stairs from the second floor bursts into the living-room, dashes to the kitchen while buttoning his shirt and puts the kettle to boil in a hurry.

"Shouldn't have worked on that case so late..." John mutters to himself, checking his watch and groaning – he is going to be late for work if he doesn't leave in the next five minutes. Turning to the living-room, he catches the gaze of the skull and grins back like an idiot. He is in a good mood – almost finished writing about that case Sherlock had solved some time after _The Six Thatchers. _John never really had time to put it up on the blog – like so many other cases, and since the summer he's been working on them again. He hasn't posted any, though. Somehow, he doesn't feel ready to start blogging about Sherlock again.

Gulping down his toast, John runs to the bathroom to wash a bit while the tea is brewing – one of the good things about having the flat all to himself is that he can burst into what used to be Sherlock's bathroom without warning and just use it as his own. Then again, no thing is good enough to make up for the man's absence.

John still sees him everywhere. Upon waking when his eyes meet the empty side of the bed on which Sherlock had lain that night when John was having a nightmare about Charlie's death. In the staircase where John still hears their steps rushing down every time Sherlock was called by Lestrade, where John remembers having limped once, wondering why he was so fascinated by that maniac he'd just met and with whom he was about to move in. And the living-room... Sherlock is everywhere in 221B, and John wouldn't live anywhere else; he enjoys the bitter-sweetness of the everlasting presence.

He drinks his tea and one minute later grabs his briefcase and jacket and rushes down the stairs, at the bottom of which he meets his landlady.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh hello dear. Late again, are we?"

"Haha, I'm afraid I am."

"You do realize you may end up getting fired because of Sherlock again even when he's not there anymore?"

John stops in his track, and breaks into laughter – but Mrs. Hudson seems half-serious. He kisses her on the cheek before dashing down the hall.

"Oh well, he would manage to do that, wouldn't he?"

Sending her a last smile before going out, he checks his pocket for his oyster card – no money to hop on cabs all the time now – and hurries down the street. His phone vibrates, and he remembers he hasn't answered Molly's text yet – it's been a while since he last saw her. _Today for coffee?_ He presses the Send button and keeps running, unawares of Mrs. Hudson standing on the doorstep and watching him from afar.

Hopping about on such a sunny day and with such a happy face, John looks perfectly content with his lifestyle. Such a strong, kind and considerate man... Mrs. Hudson can't help but think it is too bad that the good doctor doesn't have anyone to share his life with and build a family. He would certainly be a great husband, and a wonderful father – and he deserves the company. Shaking her head and cursing Sherlock for the umpteenth time since he got that silly idea of jumping off a roof and leaving John behind, she goes back in and closes the _221B _door behind her.

* * *

><p><em>Now we are lying and counting the leaves<br>Underneath our tree  
>How can I truly be angry with you?<br>All you want is to be part of me  
>You love like no human could<br>You love like no human should_

* * *

><p>Work is dull, but John puts up with it because he needs the money. He knows Sherlock has left him with everything he owned, but still that wouldn't last for a life time anyway and he doesn't want to stay idle – even if "idle" means running around London to get to know better the city Sherlock loved so much and see things how he used to see them – as far as possible anyway. John is well aware that he's no genius and will never have a mind palace in which each and every street of London would appear at his will with every possible detail that could come in handy during a chase, for instance. <em>Well, it's not like that would be useful to me<em>, he ponders while smiling absent-mindedly to a patient. As he walks back to his office, he walks into a young female colleague whose face lights up as she sees him.

"Oh, hello John!"

"Hi Rebecca. How are you doing today?"

"I'm fine, thank you. I was wondering... If you're free after work, would you like to have coffee?"

John blinks, thrown off balance. It's been a while since he's been hit on. Hell, it's been a while since _he_ has hit on anybody. And Rebecca is definitely _very_ attractive... He sends her a winning smile.

"Sure, I..."

Interrupted by his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket, he takes it out and checks his message – he's got a text from Molly. _**With pleasure! 5pm in front of Bart's?**_ John's face unwittingly lights up and breaks into a grin. Completely oblivious to Rebecca's arched eyebrow and scowl, he corrects:

"I'm sorry, I'm already seeing someone today. Maybe some other time? Gotta dash for my next appointment, have a nice day!"

And then he's gone, leaving a very angry shunned woman behind him. It hasn't even crossed his mind to lie to her and say something came up and he needs to go and see a family member or something – he is just so glad to be meeting Molly because she was close to Sherlock, no matter how rude the detective was to her. John remembers him mentioning her in his 'note', too. He swallows, his fists clenching imperceptibly. Feeling Sherlock's presence at all times keeps him going, but some memories can be nothing but painful.

The morning passes by quickly and John takes time to check his emails during lunch break. There's one from Mike, saying they should have a drink some time – and John smiles, remembering the last time they had 'a' drink and how wasted they were the next day. The other one is from Chris – now officially his sister-in-law – who's inviting him over for dinner on Friday night.

_**Seb will be there too, hope you don't mind **_**:)**

John doesn't mind. He met Sebastian Moran at Harry's and Chris's wedding in Canada – he introduced himself as the blockhead who kept hitting on Chris even when she was engaged and was pierced by Harry's glare when they met for the first time. A funny guy, who remained a regular customer at Chris's restaurant and became a friend of the couple. A bit too talkative perhaps, but all in all, Seb was a nice bloke.

_**No problem, I'll be there. Glad to see you soon! -JW**_

He stares at the email a second before sending it – every time he signs _**JW, **_he can't help but crave any kind of message from: _**SH**_.

* * *

><p><em>Poison, the poison, I taste on your lips<br>Makes the apple red  
>Wouldn't you love if I fell like Snow White<br>Slumbered in your bed?  
>You love like no human could<br>You love like no human should_

* * *

><p>John is already heading to Bart's when he receives a call from Molly.<p>

"Hello John! I'm so sorry but do you think you could come up to my flat and meet me there instead of Bart's? I've just realized today is my boyfriend's birthday and I haven't prepared anything for him! So I was thinking of making dinner but I have to be home to do it, so..."

"Sure, I don't mind. But we can just put it back too if it's easier for..."

"No, no! I was really looking forward to seeing you. Please do come. I'll send you the details by text."

John smiles, amused. Hearing Molly all flustered over her boyfriend's birthday is a lovely thing indeed. He knew she'd been seeing someone, but hadn't been sure whether it was serious or not. Well, obviously, it was, if she didn't mind them meeting and even wanted to do something as sweet as prepare dinner for his birthday.

Turning away from Bart's, he chuckles lightly, trying to picture Molly the morgue worker in an apron, touching food instead of dead bodies. Quite a sight... He stops to get some chocolates, giving up on cakes as his hostess probably won't have time to sit down anyway.

Molly's flat turns out to be harder to find than he thought – but finally he manages to ring at her door. He must suppress a giggle when she opens the door wearing a pink apron, her face glowing, but his grin his sincere.

"John! So glad to see you, please come in."

Her flat is cosy and much more simple and bare than John thought it wouldd be. Not that he pictured it all pink and full of cushions and cat pictures, but... It's actually very nice and homely.

"I'm sorry I couldn't go out, but he hadn't told me anything about it and I just found out..."

"Don't worry about it," John cut in, looking around her living-room, "it's very nice of you to invite me to your flat. You'll have to come to 221B some day."

They fall silent and John gives her the chocolates to dispel the unease. She smiles.

"Please sit anywhere you'd like, I'll be right back with the tea."

As he sits on the couch, John's mouth curves up and his eyes twinkle.

"Your couch is great," he tells Molly when she comes back from the kitchen, "if Sherlock had known it I'm sure he would've loved it – probably would've spent his day sprawled on it, because it's so comfortable."

Molly stares, in shock. John, looking at the couch, his hand resting on it as if on a lover's heaving chest, doesn't notice right away, but looks up when she doesn't answer.

"Sorry, that sounded a bit weird. But you know he did that a lot on a non-case day – that, and shooting the wall."

By the time he's done speaking, Molly has regained her composure and slaps herself mentally for letting her emotions show so much on her face. But she'd been dumbfounded by John's comment, and had wondered for a second if he knew anything – knew that Sherlock _had_ indeed spent days sprawled on that couch doing nothing but scribble notes for her to give to his network, rack his brain and play with Toby.

But as she serves the tea and observes John from the corner of her eyes, she realizes it isn't that he suspects anything – he just thinks of Sherlock at all times. His comment was casual, and there was nothing more behind it. Still, it revived in her the guilt of knowing, and never telling him... That Sherlock is alive, and surely wants nothing more than come back and spend boring days sprawled on the couch in 221B. It is always like that – what we once hated and considered to be a bother suddenly appears under a new light when we are gone and cannot have it anymore. She doesn't doubt for one second that Sherlock found those times dull and always craved the stimulation provided by a case. But now that he certainly doesn't lack such stimulation and exposure to danger, she is certain he craves those long, boring days sprawled on the couch, watching the telly with John and playing Cluedo... She chuckles.

"What?" John asks, puzzled but smiling in amusement.

Molly blushes. She can't possibly tell him Sherlock had been ranting about board games and Cluedo when he stayed in her flat for a week after his presumed death, complaining that they were completely illogical, and completely oblivious to the fact that he seemed to be _missing_ them already. Those stupid games John tried to occupy him with so as to save their walls – and avoid any confrontation with the neighbours.

"Nothing. Just picturing Sherlock sprawled on a couch – it's hard to imagine when you don't live with him."

She realizes too late that she's used the present tense, but it doesn't seem to bother John – in fact, he doesn't even seem to notice. Molly feels a pang in her chest. John is learning to live with a ghost, even though Sherlock is still alive somewhere...

"Haha, I guess! But you have a cat, right?"

She blinks. How did he know that? Catching her puzzled expression, John adds:

"Sherlock told me about it. Can't remember why, though. Oh yes, it was when our neighbour Mrs. Turner found a cat in the street and didn't know what to do with it, so she came to ask me – I mean, I'm not a vet or anything, but... and then Sherlock just said we should call you, since you had one."

Molly bursts out laughing. Seriously? Of all the things Sherlock could've remembered about her, he chose to memorize the _cat_? Oh well.

"I see. But how is that related to Sherlock?"

"Well, you see, Sherlock at home is pretty much like a cat. Since you have one, you must know what I mean."

Their eyes meet and a second later they break into a fit of giggles. The comparison was so silly and so true all at once that it was just hilarious. Once they've calmed down, Molly stands up and says:

"Won't you follow me to the kitchen? I have something baking and I wouldn't want it to burn."

John grins.

"Sure."

When they're all settled at the kitchen table, he goes on:

"So what have you been up too? It's been a while."

"Oh well, nothing much. The corpses don't stop coming just because it's summer..."

They exchange a smirk.

"Of course not. But did you take a break?"

"I did!" she exclaims, enthusiastic, "We went to Italy for a week. It was my first time there!"

John smiles, ridiculously glad to see her so genuinely happy about her vacation.

"What about you?"

"Well, I went to Canada for my sister's wedding," John says.

"Oh?" Molly tilts her head to the side as she closes her fridge. "Did she move there?"

"Nope. She and her fiancée Christiane just wanted to make things official, so they had their wedding there."

"That's great! Did you get to see the Niagara Falls?" she inquires, sparkles in her eyes.

"No, I was just there for a few days and I had to help the whole time – not much family on our side."

Molly sends him a knowing look and resumes cutting her vegetables when suddenly they hear the entrance door open and someone call out.

"Hello darling! I'm hooome!"

Molly jumps and looks at John with horror.

"Why is he back so early!" she whispers, panicked.

John tries to reassure her.

"Don't worry about it, he'll be happy anyway..."

He stops and stares at the man who's just burst into the kitchen – and gapes. Even shaved and well dressed, there's no mistaking.

"You..."

"Shinwell! I had no idea you'd come back so early, I'm not ready at all..." She falls silent as she sees her boyfriend pale and his eyes widen at the sight of John. She frowns. "Do you know each other?"

"Nope. First time we meet. It's very nice meeting you, by the way," John says with a somewhat forced smile, standing. They exchange a glance and shake hands.

"Pleasure to meet you too," Shinwell Johnson replies.

"I was just trying to prepare something for dinner, but..."

"It's okay Molly, maybe we can just go to the living? I won't be staying for too long anyway."

"Okay... take the tea with you! Would you like some cookies?"

"We're fine, really. Thanks a lot Molly."

Shinwell follows John to the living-room in silence, and looks sheepishly up at him when he turns with a glare.

"_What_ are you doing here?" John hisses once they're out of earshot.

"Look, it's not what you think..."

"Oh yeah? So tell me, I'm curious. You just happened to meet Molly Hooper on the street and fell in love with her, so you decided to stop being a homeless guy and suddenly found yourself a position?"

"I'm not actually homeless!" Shinwell protests, "I just... like the street. Old habits die hard, you know."

"No, I don't," John replies coldly.

"All right, listen, I... I love Molly. I really love her. I don't have any secret agenda."

"Who are you?"

"I told you my name! Shinwell Johns..."

"Is that your real name?"

"It is! Please, I..." He glances nervously towards the kitchen as he hears Molly coming, "I didn't lie to you, Dr. Watson."

"Guys! Should I put some more water to boil?"

"No, thank you. I'll be on my way."

She smiles in apology. _Sorry I invited you over instead of coming to Bart's, and sorry Shinwell came back earlier than expected..._ her face tells him. John simply smiles back in understanding. _No problem. It's your boyfriend's birthday after all. _

"Let's have coffee some other day."

"Sure. It was nice meeting you, Shinwell."

"Very nice meeting you too. I'll walk you to the door."

"Bye, Molly! Thanks for the tea!"

"You're very welcome," Molly replies brightly.

At the door, John turns to Shinwell and says before he can utter a word:

"Look, I'm not sure what to think... It seems a bit too much for a coincidence. But she seemed so happy... I'm not going to tell her anything, but I want you to give me your word you're not doing this with ulterior motives."

"I swear I'm not. You have my word."

John holds his gaze and their staring contest lasts almost a minute.

"Take good care of her. If you don't, be sure that I will find you."

And with those last very reassuring words, John turns and leaves.

Shinwell watches him walk down the corridor, then closes the door and sighs. He walks back to the kitchen.

"Shinwell? How was John?"

"John? Fine, I think. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know, he seemed a bit... weird after you came. Do you really not know each other?"

"Of course not, I would've told you! He seems like a nice guy though."

"He is," Molly concurs firmly. Then more pensively: "He is."

* * *

><p><em>You love like no human could<br>(Are you poison, are you poison, are you poisoning me?)  
><em>_You love like no human should  
>(Are you poison, are you poison, are you poisoning me?)<em>

* * *

><p>John is rather upset as he walks down the street to the closest underground station – or more precisely, puzzled. Very puzzled. Shinwell Johnson with Molly Hooper... it was just all too suspicious.<p>

_And then again, why? _It wasn't like Shinwell was a secret spy or something – if he had been, he wouldn't have been so stupid as to talk to John in the first place. He was probably telling the truth. To some extent, anyway. John decides he'll have to keep an eye on him either way.

Since he's out early, he takes his phone and texts Mike. _**Why not tonight, mate?**_

They meet half an hour later.

"I thought you were busy!" Mike exclaims as he walks up to him sitting at the bar, huffing a bit.

"Something came up. Molly's new boyfriend."

"Oh! I see. Well, glad to see you anyway. How was your summer?" he inquires as he sits next to him, ordering a drink.

"Good, very good." John replies. "It's too bad you couldn't make it to the wedding, it was a very nice one – Chris had planned everything, and she's much better at it than Harry."

Mike laughs.

"I bet! And what about you?"

John takes a sip, arching an eyebrow.

"What about me?"

"You know, getting married, having a wife and kids... building a family?"

John averts his gaze and they fall silent. He's at a loss as to what he should answer. It's true he'd love to be a father, but...

The word 'Sherlock' hangs in the air, weighing it down and making it muggy around them. Mike clears his throat, noticeably embarrassed. Scraping his head, he says:

"Look, John, I'm sorry I introduced you to Sherlock if... No, what I mean is... You should still build your life the way you always wanted it."

"Everything I always wanted, he gave it to me," John answers simply, yet firmly.

Mike falls silent, wordless in the face of such unalterability.

"Do whatever you want, but I still think you should go out a bit, see someone..."

"I do go out."

And so John tells Mike about his roaming about London – discovering new streets he'd never even heard about before, going to bars and even clubs – because Sherlock knew everything about it, he was surprisingly informed about London's night life. All for the Work, of course.

_And you're doing it all for Sherlock_, Mike ponders, a bit gloomy. But John sounds so excited about it – and that bakery he's found by Covent Garden, they should really go and have coffee there once, oh and there's this funny club where they play jazz every Thursday night and it's actually really good...

Mike listens and watches him radiating, beaming beyond the hurt, and obviously loving the pain because it is now blended with the deepest affection a man can feel.

* * *

><p><em>Are you poison?<br>Are you poison?  
>Are you poisoning me?<em>

* * *

><p>They still talk and drink for a few hours, and it's already late when Mike says he must head home. John doesn't feel like going to sleep just yet, and so he thinks he might as well wander the streets of London a bit.<p>

These daily excursions have allowed him to learn so much more about the city he thought he knew that it's become almost an addiction. He was all the more thrilled when he thought of taking a look at Sherlock's laptop and could check his internet history or some of his 'research' files he'd never posted on his site – God, he'd sulked so much when John had teased him about those stupid tobacco ashes... When he explored everything Sherlock had left on that laptop, every scrap of paper he'd left lying around the flat, every note in between book pages (and John had started reading the books, too, and was intent on reading them all), he found that there were in fact many traces of where he may have gone, which areas of London he was most familiar with, etc. John talked to Lestrade about it too, and every time they meet the D.I. tells John some more about Sherlock's cases during those five years when John hadn't entered his life. Thanks to all of that, John managed to 'gather data', and tries to retrace his lost friend's steps in the city he loved.

As he turns in a sideways alley, John takes out his little notebook in which he takes notes, sketches (very bad ones, he must say), area maps, etc. He doesn't use at night the Ipad Chris and Harry gave him as a gift to this effect – take notes, pictures, drawings on a graphic table... John avoids taking it with him during his nightly outings, especially in risky neighbourhoods.

Having decided to walk back to Baker Street from where he was, John calculates it should take him about an hour, and writes down everything he finds remarkable along the way – knowing fully that Sherlock would've mocked him and told him he missed everything that mattered. His chest tightens. _I did, didn't I? Miss everything that mattered..._He shakes his head, frowning. No, he didn't. He was so lucky to meet Sherlock and to be able to stay by his side. The guilt and the ripping ache shrouding his death did not change anything. It felt unfair and most of all absurd, devoid of any sense whatsoever – something nor John nor anybody else could account for rationally – that such a brilliant, energetic man as Sherlock would die so young. _We're not safe_, John remembers writing on his blog a bit after the Pool incident, _Mrs. Hudson, me... _ The one who hadn't been safe had been Sherlock, and he'd paid the price so those around him would be safe. Of that, John is sure. He knows he'll have to talk to Mycroft some day to get to the bottom of the story, but his hatred and fury haven't subsided and he knows, he _knows_ he will kill the man if he sees him. Sherlock's presence surrounding him at all times is a blessing, and allows him to smile and laugh whole-heartedly even through the drilling pain and the unrelenting aching for his dead friend. But there is nothing soothing, nothing salutary in the memory of Sherlock's death. John holds himself responsible, but knows that if Sherlock wanted him unaware of things, he could completely trick him. But Mycroft couldn't have been tricked. He must have known to some extent. And for that, John knows he'll never forgive him.

* * *

><p><em>Are you poison?<br>Are you poison?  
><em>_Are you poisoning me?_

* * *

><p>It is late when he finally gets to 221B Baker Street. As he takes the first step to the door and unlocks it, he is assailed by the usual flashback. <em>"Ah, Mr. Holmes!" "Sherlock, please." <em>John goes in and closes the door behind him, careful to be quiet so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson._"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." _He walks up the stairs as delicately as he can, but the third step still creaks under his weight._"Mrs. Hudson – the landlady, she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." _ Tired, John heads directly to the second floor._ "Sorry – you stopped her husband from being executed?" _He pushes the door to his room and drops his briefcase and jacket on the chair before walking to the bathroom. _"Oh, no – I ensured it."_

John decided that Sherlock's room would be the guest room, but he still sleeps there sometimes – it is where the lingering scent of the detective is stronger after all. Still, he goes there every day to air the room, and sometimes uses it as a study too – he doesn't want Sherlock's room to be some kind of macabre shrine dedicated to his memory, with windows always closed in order to keep things as they were, to trap the fading scent in... He doesn't want Sherlock's presence to be mummified in the detective's old bedroom.

* * *

><p><em>Are you poison?<br>Are you poison?  
><em>_Are you poisoning me?_

* * *

><p>Once he's washed up a bit, John undresses and slips into his pyjama. He's kept Sherlock's hideous blue nightgown, but never puts it on – Sherlock looked silly and sexy in it, but John knows he'd only look ridiculous, a bit like Disney's Dopey in Snow White. He smirks. <em>A reference Sherlock would've completely missed<em>. John had enjoyed their Bond night a lot – he'd found out that Sherlock hadn't seen even _one_ James Bond and had rented them all, forcing him to stay and watch them with him all night. Sherlock had complained and then been insufferable the whole time, commenting every two seconds and making snappy remarks about how bad the actors were – but at one point he'd become somewhat sleepy and so had stopped whining so frequently, until he dozed off and unwittingly rested his head on John's shoulder. It had all been so cliché and ridiculously corny... John had loved every second of it.

As he buttons up his pyjama shirt, he cannot get Sherlock out of his mind, and imagines it is Sherlock's hands buttoning him up. Closing his eyes, he concentrates on the image - then realizes he'd rather have Sherlock unbutton him...

John blushes, feeling stupid, but keeps his eyes closed and starts unbuttoning the shirt, his own hands soon roaming his chest. He's glad he's turned the lights off already, or he would've really felt too self-conscious to do this. Softly, a moan escapes his lips as he gets hard from nipple stimulation alone.

"Sherlock..."

A man has needs. John never minded dating women even when he wasn't in love with them, but dating them with the clear knowledge that it is just for an easy fuck is too sinister for him. Then again, he didn't have to date them, and could've found someone for a one-night stand.

He had, in fact. A few times. It always turned out rather badly, because only the thought of Sherlock could arouse him, and most of the time the other person's presence just put John off – as if _she_ was in the way... The one time he managed to go all the way, he came screaming Sherlock's name – and even a one-night stand doesn't appreciate that. He'd found himself thrown out of her flat in the middle of the night, and wasn't very inclined to repeat the experience.

Masturbation is the easiest way after all. John knows people would find the whole thing pretty grim, but he just cannot find it in himself to give a damn. As his thumb brushes a nipple, he arches his back and sighs, his other hand resting on his waist, his arm wrapped around his chest. "Sherlock..."

The left hand pinches John's nipple teasingly and he gasps, imagining Sherlock's touch on his skin. It makes him feel like crying.

* * *

><p><em>How can I truly be mad<br>When all that you want is to be..._

* * *

><p>Falling back onto the bed with a yelp, as if someone was pushing him, John lets the hands ravage his chest, titillate each nipple until they're both swollen, red and erect, almost painful to the touch – ecstasy buttons sending shivers all over his body whenever stimulated. Slowly, one hand goes up to his throat, while the other falls to his crotch, palming John's hardness through the fabric.<p>

"Aah! Sherlock!" The wail escapes his lips before John can even formulate the thought – and hearing his own wanton voice makes him ashamed. Much harder, too.

The hand around his neck starts stroking the throat, then squeezing, until John is compelled to tilt his head back and lift his chin – he desperately wishes he could feel Sherlock's mouth on him, and the insane idea of having recourse to heroine again crosses his mind.

"No! Ahh... Sherlock, Sherlock..."

The hand around his erection is stroking and squeezing alternately, rubbing the tip tantalizingly and teasing the base expertly, not forgetting to stimulate the hardening balls, eliciting hungry, wretched noises from John resounding lusciously in the room. "Sherlock! Please... Please, Sherlock... Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherl.."

The movements of the palm pumping his hardness become more forceful as the other hand joins in and teases twice as much. They slip under his trousers and grab the throbbing member none to gently, making John scream. "AAH! Please, Sherlock... Sherlock... I want you so much..."

He can feel the tears mingle with the sweat on his face but doesn't care. "Sherlock... ahh! Sherlock... nngh... Sherlock... need.. you... want... ah! Want you..." Breathless, he squirms on the mattress. _His scent... _He needs Sherlock's scent.

* * *

><p><em>When all that you want is to be...<em>

* * *

><p>Feverishly, he gropes for something under his pillow and soon finds what he's looking for: Sherlock's shirt. The scent isn't so strong anymore, he'll have to take a new one soon, he notes... Breathing deeply into the fabric, he moans loudly as the hand on his crotch keeps teasing deviously. Suddenly he jumps and rolls on his chest, spreading his legs broadly and squeezing the cover between them, thrusting his pelvis wildly. The hand is now on the receiving end as John keeps bucking and bucking his hips rhythmically, pressing Sherlock's shirt to his face, his chest, his heart...<p>

"Aaah! Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlooock..."

He wishes he could've kept Sherlock's scarf, Sherlock's coat... Almost sobbing, whether from pleasure or from grief, he grabs the sheet and imagines that he's pulling Sherlock's body closer to him by his scarf, burying himself in his coat, his lips on his throat, his arms wrapped around him tightly, thrusting into him, drowning inside of him...

He wishes he could've buried himself in him before he went.

Wishes he could have possessed him before he became completely out of his reach...

With a last buck, John's breath catches in his throat and the intensity of the orgasm knocks him down. Convulsing, his eyes rolling back, he thrashes and squirms and cries, babbling the ever desired name.

"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherl..."

He allows himself to weep and lets the waves of pleasure wash over him, wash away the unbearable longing even if just for a second in this pretence of love-making. But it never lasts even a second. Sherlock is everywhere because he is dead. Regardless of how much John wants him and gives himself to him completely in his fantasies, he can never have him. And yet he wouldn't want to be anywhere else than in this bed having sex with a shadow and a shirt, because it feels so ridiculously _good_ and John would rather make love to Sherlock's ghost than to anyone else on earth. Hugging the shirt, the pillow and the sheets, he wraps himself tight around the blanket and inhales deeply.

He lets the beloved scent overwhelm him, his expression peaceful, a smile floating on his lips – lulled to sleep by the shrouding presence of a man he will never possess.

* * *

><p><em>Part of me? <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	26. Utrinque paratus

**…**

**A/N: ****The fairy tale "Master of all masters" is recounted here as told by Joseph Jacobs. **

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** **_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"__  
><em>

_**Utrinque paratus**__: "___Ready for anything" ; motto of... :)  
><em>_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the links. _

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXVI: <strong>_**Utrinque paratus**_

_song: Parachute, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I don't tell anyone about the way you hold my hand.<br>I don't tell anyone about the things that we have planned.  
>I won't tell anybody<br>Won't tell anybody  
>They wanna push me down they wanna see you fall down.<em>

* * *

><p>Maria had been working in the Hôtel Saint Gervais in Geneva for twenty years, and never had she seen such suspicious customers. She could not determine whether they were a couple or not – they did share a room, but looked more like a pair of business men trying to cut on expenses than like lovers. Still, the rooms weren't that expensive in this little one star hotel, and she could not fathom why such wealthy-looking strangers would bother sharing a room if not for the obvious... Well.<p>

She blushed and resumed her work. She'd been a cleaning lady since she was a very young woman, having no talent whatsoever for studies – but she'd been happy to be hired in this calm and proper little hotel in the center of the city, not so far from Lake Léman, and close to the station too, which allowed her to visit her brother every once in a while on weekends. She enjoyed going to the country, and she always loved the beautiful landscapes of Switzerland.

Presently though, she was more absorbed in the two peculiar visitors who'd been staying for two nights already, and who acted so strangely. One of them was taciturn and barely left the room – except when it rained, and he found it somehow suitable to go strolling by the Lake. He was a bit scary. The other one gave her a warmer impression and seemed more cheerful, chatting with the staff and making funny jokes. He did appear to be a bit of a womanizer, but Maria didn't mind: he didn't seem like the type who'd sexually harass anyone. Moreover, his companion was here to keep an eye on him, like a big brother used to dealing with younger siblings.

That's what she thought on the face of it anyway. But two days after their arrival, she was beginning to wonder who the curious pair was – the tall, quiet and intimidating man, and the handsome, joyous one. Maria was about to enter their room when she caught scraps of a conversation behind the door, and was surprised that they were still there, instead of having gone to lunch. Since the taller customer spent a great part of the day in the room, the good cleaning lady hadn't wanted to disturb him, and so had tried to clean their room lastly, so it was unlikely that they'd be there. But this time, it was obvious that they hadn't gone to the hotel restaurant – yet, in any case.

She could not make out their words, but they seemed to be arguing – or rather, the one with a deeper voice appeared to be chiding the other. _Elder brother indeed, _she thought. She was about to leave when the lower of the two voices suddenly called out loudly.

"Yes? Please do come in."

Maria froze on the spot, wondering if she had heard correctly. She thought she heard a sound of annoyance, then steps made their way to the door and the younger of the two men opened it, a friendly smile gracing his lips.

"Hello, there. May I help you?" he asked, with a strong British accent.

Maria turned crimson and stammered:

"No... no I.. I'm sorry, I thought there would be no one in the room and I finished the whole floor so..."

"Please do come back later," cut in the voice of the other man, who was presently sitting in the armchair turned towards the windows. "It will surely rain this afternoon, and I shall go out."

Befuddled, Maria blinked, then apologized profusely again and took her leave, hurrying down the corridor, leaving the eccentric pair behind.

* * *

><p><em>Won't tell anybody that you turn the world around.<br>I won't tell anyone that your voice is my favourite sound.  
>I won't tell anybody<br>Won't tell anybody  
>They wanna see us fall they wanna see us fall down.<em>

* * *

><p>The younger man who had opened the door on the poor cleaning lady closed it with a chuckle and turned to his companion, who was still gazing pensively out of the window, lost in the greyness of the darkening clouds.<p>

"You've scared her away, methinks," he remarked amusedly. The other shrugged.

"That is just part of the role."

The first man snorted and slumped back into a chair next to his partner, whose darker hair and whiter skin contrasted sharply, his eerie blue eyes filling with the charcoal shade of the changing sky.

"You're just lazy and preferred to take the aloof persona, so I would be left to do all the talking," he whined dramatically. The quieter man ignored his remark and resumed their discussion.

"I need you back in New-York before the day after tomorrow," he declared, flat-footed.

The other arched an eyebrow and the chestnut brown lock of hair above his eyes rose comically as his face broke into a mocking grin.

"You _need_ me?"

The imposing man sent him a cold, indifferent look. "Don't be daft."

"Do you _need_ me to bleach my hair again?" the younger man insisted playfully.

"Certainly not, you look horrendous like this – even worse than usual. You may die it back if you'd like."

His companion pouted and stood to watch himself in the mirror.

"And to think I bleached it for you..." he mumbled, possibly trying to sound cute. The cold man continued, paying no mind whatsoever to the other's theatrics.

"I expect that you do not fail me this time. Our Evil Queen has got bored of apples and is now playing directly with fire... Let us remind them that flames may burn," he concluded icily, adding with a very persuasive stare to the mirror reflection of his partner:

"And you might want to remember it as well."

Outside it thundered, and the clouds spewed their pouring rain over the grizzled city.

* * *

><p><em>I don't need a parachute, baby if I've got you<br>Baby if I've got you, i don't need a parachute.  
>You're gonna catch me, you're gonna catch if I fall<br>Down, down, down..._

* * *

><p>Jérémie was flegmatically ignoring the dark glances of the man sitting next to him, and who was obviously disturbed by the loudness of the music playing on his iPhone. But Jérémie was used to it, and merely adjusted his earphones, almost enjoying the venomous glare it earned him. Old people were so funny nowadays, so easily upset. He allowed himself a peek towards his fuming neighbour. The guy wasn't so old, after all. Well, to Jérémie, who'd just turned 15, he was still an old man. His clothes were unrefined and nondescript, but his uncannily blue eyes gave the teenage boy the chills. <em>Freak<em>, he thought, before turning to the window again. The flight wasn't too long anyway, he wouldn't have to bear the creepy guy's presence for more than an hour.

It wasn't the first time he took the plane alone – his parents got divorced when he was seven, and his dad was from Monaco, so he'd moved back there after they got separated. Jérémie lived with his mom in Switzerland, but went to his father's place – which he personally found much cooler – every holiday. He never suffered from the separation, as he got a double amount of everything: attention, Christmas and birthday presents, New Year money... He was pretty much used to getting everything he wanted.

Suddenly standing up, he signified to the weird guy that he wanted to pass to go to the toilets, thrusting his chin forward contemptuously. The man blinked, looked up at him, and smiled. Then he closed his eyes and leant back in his seat as if he were in the deepest slumber.

Jérémie stared, dumbfounded, as the bloody freak _faked_ sleeping just to annoy the hell out of him. Which he succeeded in doing brilliantly. Frowning, Jérémie tried to step over him, but at this precise moment the infuriating stranger _squirmed _and rolled onto his side, effectively tripping the poor boy who fell flat on his face, cursing loudly. The man jolted, faking outrage and crying out, alerting the hostesses who rushed to their side. Rubbing his head, Jérémie tried to get up but found that he was stuck and had to be picked up by two crew members like a little child. Humiliated, he turned a death glare to the devious stranger, only to find him looking all lost and confused, as if he had indeed just been disturbed in his sleep by a clumsy teenager.

"You...!"

"Are you all right, my boy?" he asked in a worried tone, and Jérémie couldn't help but be impressed by his acting skills. He gaped, staring dumbly at the hateful comedian, and only then did he noticed that his earphones' wire had been irremediably damaged in his fall, as if the mock sleeper had actually grabbed it as Jérémie tumbled. This was the last straw.

"You broke my earphones!" he whined, utterly inconsiderate towards the other passengers.

The man tilted his head to the side and his clear gaze was blurred in puzzlement.

"What–"

"Stop pretending!" Then to one of the hostesses: "That freak was just faking his sleep to trick me, I saw him! He kept sending me dark glances and when I stood up he faked sleeping, he _faked_ it all and fucking broke my _earphones_!"

"Please sir, I must ask you to calm down this instant and to stop disturbing other passengers."

"But–"

"Be quiet, young man!" an older male passenger suddenly protested, and many others joined in. As he became aware that everyone was against him, Jérémie felt his hatred for the stranger increase tenfold. He turned to glare impetuously at the stranger one last time, and froze on the spot, feeling very much like a bucket of cold water had just hit him. All the eyes were fixed on him, and so all missed the feral, icy stare the teenage boy was greeted with. Jérémie's blood ran cold in his veins, and he stood transfixed by the ardour of a smouldering violence, suddenly sharp and clear in the deep, engorging pupils. Terrified, reduced to a trembling prey before its predator, the boy obediently let himself be led to the back of the plane – away from the paralysing gaze of the psychopath. Jérémie suddenly felt sick. He'd seen it – and he alone had seen it. The eyes of a killer.

* * *

><p><em>Don't believe the things you tell yourself so late at night.<br>You are your own worst enemy, you'll never win the fight.  
><em>_Just hold on to me, I'll hold on to you.  
>It's you and me up against the world it's you and me.<em>

* * *

><p>Someone was talking to him. He couldn't decipher the words, but someone... The voice was familiar – or should have been. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. The darkness surrounding him was opaque, and he wasn't sure whether his eyes were closed and he couldn't open them, or if there truly was no light to be seen anywhere around him. It was cold and forlorn, dreary in its emptiness - vacant, irrevocably.<p>

And still, emerging from the deepest shadows, the voice was speaking – not calling, but just talking to him. It should have alarmed him – or annoyed him at least. But for some unfathomable reason, the voice had a placating effect. Its timbre spread a sense of intimacy within the darkness itself, making it almost comfortable, almost cosy; making it feel like home.

He caught himself allowing to be lulled by the familiarity of the tone, and unable to put a face on it, unable to put anything at all on it – or on the blackness surrounding him – he imagined he was resting alongside a lover. Or rather, sprawled on a couch, his head on his knees, listening to his voice. It was a lullaby and it was a hymn, yet without melody and deprived of a name. A song without words, a piece for which no score could ever be written, for they did not exist, the notes capable of shedding light on its mysterious composition. It mollified and invigorated him all at once. Because to be heard the voice needed a breath, and a pulse, and a life - and it was the breath, pulse, and life. And so he found he could do nothing but drown into it and drink it to the drop - the presence it betrayed overwhelming. Indulging in the touch of a hand stroking his hair, indulging in the enveloping sense of unassailable safety, indulging...

He fell in the dream and woke up. His eyes opened to a silent darkness.

* * *

><p><em>I don't believe anything, don't trust anyone anymore.<br>But I believe you when you say we're never gonna fall.  
>Hand behind my neck, arm around my waist,<br>Never let me hit the ground, you'll never let me crash down..._

* * *

><p>Little Concetta was sitting on the low white chalk wall in front of her house, licking a large lollipop. Her grandma was the owner of the Candy shop at the corner, and she got to taste one big piece of candy a week, whichever she liked the most on the display.<p>

Every Sunday she enjoyed eating it, making it last all afternoon. She always sat on the little wall just before her door, watching the passer-bys. She laughed at the plump, fidgety men hurrying up and down the street like the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, smiled at the older women scurrying along with their shopping bag, trying to catch up with their grand children hopping around. She marvelled at the beautiful ladies in colourful, dazzling dresses, who twirled around airily, flying to some secret rendez-vous or fleeing unwanted compliments and glances. But most of all, she liked considering passing men from head to toe, and giving them a grade on a 0 to 10 scale – looking for a future husband. She'd decided long ago that the one who'd get a ten out of ten would be the one she would marry. In her seven years of existence, she hadn't met any who was worthy of the rank.

"It isn't good to wait for Prince Charming," always chided her mother. "He'll never come, and then you will become an old spinster like Aunt Francesca."

But today, Prince Charming came. He wasn't riding a white horse, nor was he wearing a large red cape blowing in the wind. Wrapped in a dark grey coat, his black curls fell in waves on either side of his porcelain face illuminated by the most radiant blue eyes Concetta had ever seen. Her mouth fell open and when he passed right by her, her eyes widened and she dropped her lollipop. But like in a fairy tale, the stranger swiftly caught it before it touched the ground, and handed it to her with a smile.

"Careful. You don't want it to go to waste."

Mesmerized, Concetta extended her trembling little hand to take the lollipop, and when her fingers brushed the back of her prince's hand, she was amazed by the smoothness of his skin. By its coldness, too. Startled, she jolted a little, and blinked. How could his hands be so cold when he had such a warm, vibrant smile? As he stepped away she felt the urge to do something for him, and forgetting all her manners, jumped off her wall and caught his sleeve in her small fist. Surprised, he stopped in his tracks and turned his luminous face towards her. Suddenly realizing what she'd done, Concetta blushed. Fascinated by the prince and his oneiric charm, she reached towards him like in a dream, handing him her rescued lollipop. The god-like stranger blinked, baffled, but soon his face broke into a boyish grin, his expression so genuine the little girl could only gawk in adoration.

"Thank you," he said, his voice a deep baritone little Concetta would always remember in her dreams. Then he was gone, and she never saw him again.

* * *

><p><em>I don't need a parachute, baby if I've got you<br>Baby if I've got you, i don't need a parachute  
>You're gonna catch me, you're gonna catch if I fall<br>Down, down, down._

* * *

><p>They were stuck in a traffic jam. People coming back from their week-end spent in the countryside, surely. Pietro Lombardi frowned and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. True, most cab drivers were fond of traffic jams, as it certainly didn't make them lose any money – quite the contrary. But Pietro found it unnerving, especially when the client was a quiet one, like this one. The tall, dark-haired man hadn't said a word after he'd indicated his destination in a neutral voice: "Hotel Danieli." <em>No please<em>, Pietro noted grimly. Not that he wasn't used to it. Most clients were rather well-off – a synonym for scornful, according to him. This one seemed especially rich, with his Versace suit and his golden Gucci watch – he probably wouldn't bother talking to a mere cabbie. Pietro didn't care. He'd get his money in the end, and that was all that mattered.

But to be stuck with such a client was a bit of a bore. When Pietro was about to turn the radio on, an icy glare spurred him to forget the thought at once, and his hand fell back by his side right away. Not that the man was scary, but he surely was powerful and he had this aristocratic air surrounding him that just compelled the old cabbie to keep a low profile. His pursed lip and proud, angular chin commanded respect, and the solemnity of his traits only added to the overall impression of superiority he exhaled. Dignified, indeed. _Haughty_, Pietro thought.

Finally the traffic improved and soon they were driving smoothly towards the grand hotel the elegant stranger had named. _Still somewhat young_, the cabbie mused, glancing at the man in his rear-view mirror, _probably some bloody heir who'll never know what it is to earn a living. _He felt his blood boil at the thought. Pietro was used to taking very wealthy customers, but for some reason this one was getting on his nerves, even though he remained silent. In fact, his silence itself was a source of annoyance for the driver, who was very glad when the palace came into view. He didn't like the look of the man, and did not have to force his smile when he opened the door for him to get out of his car. Pietro handed the luggage to the porters, and watched the back of the quiet man as he left without a word of thanks, but with an aura of undefinable nobility and assurance – the confidence of a man who knows he will get what he wants, always.

* * *

><p><em>I won't fall out of love, I won't fall out of, I won't fall out of love, I won't fall out of...<br>I won't fall out of love, I won't fall out of, I won't fall out of love, I fall into you._

* * *

><p>Yi Ling was hurrying down the crowded streets of Venice, hands full with shopping bags from different tailors and shoemakers. Her mistress was at the SPA this morning and so she had been sent to get her orders throughout the city. Yi Ling loved Miss Salome – as she insisted that she called her. It had felt a bit awkward at first – calling her mistess by her first name – but now the young maid was used to it. She had been so happy to be noticed by this beautiful foreign lady while walking down the street in Singapore (where she'd come, hoping to find a job), and then Miss Salome had brought her along in Kuwait where her husband – a billionaire of Greek descent who was born in Singapore - had some business. And now, she was even in Venice... Yi Ling had never dreamt of such a life for herself. But she also knew that whatever happened to her mistress, and wherever she went, even to the darkest corner of the poorest village on the surface of the earth, she would follow, ever adoring and faithful.<p>

She'd been fascinated by Miss Salome's charisma at first sight. She was new in Singapore, but she'd made quite an entry as the new wife of Samuel Hupaetos. Unbowed and hypnotic, she was discreet nonetheless and did not appear much – still, she had rapidly won over the high society. Hupaetos seemed very possessive and jealous of any man setting his eyes on her, and though she was noticed, her name wasn't well-known. Yi Ling had never heard of her when she met her for the first time. She knew that Samuel Hupaetos, _the_ Samuel Hupaetos, had remarried, but that was nothing unusual and it wasn't much noted by the media, as Hupaetos kept both the ceremony and the honeymoon secret. He categorically refused that any picture should be taken of his new wife, and his personal guards chased the few daring journalists or hired photographs who attempted the deed.

And so when Yi Ling had run into the bewitching woman, she had no idea of who she truly was. She was surprised and flattered by her interest, and had been so captivated that she accepted her offer to have dinner together. They met again, and a week later Yi Ling was hired as Mrs. Salome Hupaetos's maid and live-in companion. She was her confident and her unwavering support, regardless of what the lady undertook. She soon found that Miss Salome was not only splendid, alluring and overly kind to her – but also clever, cultured and cunning, her talent for bantering and eloquence quite impressive.

As she turned at a corner, in her hurry Yi Ling did not see the tall man coming her way and ran into him so forcefully she stumbled and thought she'd end up flat on her face, her packages scattered all over the place. She cried out in surprise and her eyes widened in panic at the idea of messing her mistress's belongings, but the stranger caught her in time and everything was saved. Breathless and still in shock, she let herself be brought back on her feet, stuttering apologies in Chinese before she remembered where she was, and resuming in incomprehensible Italian. The man smiled, and she found him so handsome she froze on the spot and blushed furiously. Her confusion turned into bafflement when he replied in fluent mandarin:

"Everything is all right, please don't apologize. I am just as responsible for not looking where I was going."

Yi Ling gaped a few seconds before taking a grip and shaking her head to dispel the sense of wonder. She blinked, but when she opened her eyes the man was still there, radiant and yet darkly refined, a combination that reminded her very much of...

"In fact, I must confess something... I have been following you for quite some time, and this isn't really an accident."

His smile was so lovely Yi Ling fell instantly for it. Her blush deepened.

"I know you arrived two days ago at Hotel Danieli with your mistress Mrs. Hupaetos, whose husband is to come and join her the day after tomorrow, once he is done with an important meeting held in Kuwait."

"How do you–"

"I talked to the porters," he cut in, smirking slightly.

"But, sir... why would you be following _me_?"

The gentleman arched an eyebrow.

"Didn't Miss Salome find something in you as well?"

"How do you know that I..."

"... call her that way? Well, I know what she likes."

This time, hearing the familiar phrasing, Yi Ling paled.

"Who are you?" she faltered, stepping back unwittingly.

The stranger's smile was dark and knowing. Entrancing.

"An old friend. Will you convey something to her for me?"

Unable to refuse him anything, Yi Ling nodded mechanically.

"These words exactly: "Tonight, in George and Alfred's room. Let's have dinner."

And with those words, he was gone.

* * *

><p><em>I don't need a parachute, baby if I've got you<br>Baby if I've got you, I don't need a parachute  
>You're gonna catch me, you're gonna catch if I fall<br>Down, down, down._

* * *

><p>On December 31, 1833, the French romantic poet Alfred de Musset and his lover, the female writer George Sand, shared room number 13 in the Hotel Danieli, Venice. Their stormy affair marked the place forever, even after they left merely three months later. Today the room had changed and was much more luxurious, but retained the melancholy charm of its history.<p>

In the dim-lit suite, a man and a woman were standing face to face, her by the door, him by the window – her, illuminated by the crepuscular light, and him, silhouetted against it. Eyes plunging into eyes, brains already deciphering, calculating and speculating, they had been silent for almost a minute already, when the woman finally spoke:

"Have you started a trade?"

He showed her to a seat at a table which offered the most delicious looking cold meal and a bottle of Champagne. She let herself fall gracefully into the chair, and added, a thin smile on her painted red lips:

"In faking death."

The man opened the Champagne bottle and filled her glass, responding to her smile with a grin.

"I do not fake it much these days, unfortunately."

The woman did not shiver and accepted the glass, raising it to make a toast.

"To our deaths, then."

"To our lives," he answered, his gaze intense. They drank.

They looked like a picture, both so handsome and so mysterious, drinking Champagne in a Venetian palace – and they seemed to think so too, as the woman remarked:

"So... Alfred and George?"

"Problem?"

"I would've rather said Valmont and Merteuil," she retorted, her tone amused and playful. [1]

"Obviously."

She put her glass down and observed him closely, her knees on the table, her chin resting on her joined hands.

"So... What should I call you?"

"Some call me Kazimir. Then there's always the obvious, boring name– but I am rather reluctant to you using it."

"Mmh, let me guess... Jim Moriarty? Why?"

He smirked.

"If you're asking, you haven't guessed anything. But then again, that was never really up your street, was it?"

She pinched her lips imperceptibly at the off-handed comment, and her gaze turned slightly colder.

"So what, I was merely a tool between you two big boys and so you decided to stop using intermediaries and commit a touching double-suicide? _Please_."

"Clearly you haven't been well informed if you believe he is as _dead_ as I am. Or perhaps you truly haven't understood a thing."

"Why do you need me?" she cut in, apparently tired of the bickering and snide remarks.

The man's grin widened.

"What makes you think I do?"

"You're here. You found me."

"I never took my eyes off you."

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be."

They held their gazes, their burning pupils having a brief staring contest, before the tension melted in a reciprocal, knowing smile.

"Why wouldn't you like me to call you Jim, since you've visibly been very keen to take on the name?"

"You said once that he was your kind of man."

She blinked, once, and burst out laughing, her white teeth contrasting vividly with the redness of her lips.

"You owe me," the man continued, his voice calm but firm.

"And so you've come to claim your price?"

"I've come because your services may be useful to me."

An air of triumph traversed her gaze, her eyes sparkling with jest.

"Do you know what Salome asked King Herod as a reward for her dance?" [2]

The man's pupils darkened noticeably, but he did not seem surprised in the least, and his face cracked into a somewhat macabre grin as he replied:

"John the Baptist's head."

They stared at each other, eyes locked for a few excruciating seconds, before the man broke eye contact and simply refilled their glasses.

"But you've misunderstood something."

The woman arched an inquisitive eyebrow, leaning back into her chair more comfortably, crossing her legs.

"I am not the Herod of your story. If you really must assign a role to me, it would rather be Herodias."

"A woman?" she said, her grin now predatory.

He ignored her comment, glanced at his watched, and cut the conversation short.

"You are in no position to refuse me."

"Oh, really?" the woman's lips curved up, showing her teeth wolfishly, and her eyes lit up with something like mischief.

The dark-haired man answered her smile, his tone self-assured and tinged with mockery.

"Really."

He stood up, took his coat and walked to the door, without having touched even one dish from the appetizing buffet.

"Why?" she asked swiftly, not bothering to stand up but turning to him, back straight, posture dignified. Her pupils were trembling, with excitation or burning anger, it was hard to tell. The man stopped in the doorway, and tilted his head back, lips parting in an amused smirk – and the woman saw for a second his own face again, the one he wore under another name, in another time.

"Because of your initials."

The door was closed; the Woman smiled.

* * *

><p><em>I don't need a parachute, baby if I've got you,<br>Baby if I've got you, I don't need a parachute,  
>You're gonna catch me, you're gonna catch if I fall<em>

* * *

><p>A piece of paper had been waiting in a drawer for months. When finally the drawer was opened and the man at the desk handed it to one of the Hotel customers, it was so glad to see the light again that its colours appeared to shine more brightly – the creamy shade of the letter, the redness of the seal and ink. But the stranger pocketed it just as soon, and it was dark again.<p>

Once the tall, dark-haired man arrived in his room and the door was closed behind him, he went to sit at the large, 18th century wooden desk, and broke the seal with an antique paper knife. The letter opened up before his eyes.

**_Master of All Masters_**

**_A GIRL_**_ once went to the fair to hire herself for servant. At last a funny-looking old gentleman engaged her, and took her home to his house. When she got there, he told her that he had something to teach her, for that in his house he had his own names for things._

_He said to her: 'What will you call me?'_

_'Master or mister, or whatever you please, sir,' says she._

_He said: 'You must call me "master of all masters". And what would you call this?' pointing to his bed._

_'Bed or couch, or whatever you please, sir.'_

_'No, that's my "barnacle". And what do you call these?' said he, pointing to his pantaloons._

_'Breeches or trousers, or whatever you please, sir.'_

_'You must call them "squibs and crackers". And what would you call her?' pointing to the cat._

_'Cat or kit, or whatever you please, sir.'_

_'You must call her "white-faced simminy"._

_And this now,' showing the fire, 'what would you call this?'_

_'Fire or flame, or whatever you please, sir.'_

_'You must call it 'hot cockalorum", and what this?' he went on, pointing to the water._

_'Water or wet, or whatever you please, sir.'_

_'No, "pondalorum" is its name. And what do you call all this?' asked he as he pointed to the house._

_'House or cottage, or whatever you please, sir.'_

_'You must call it "high topper mountain".'_

_That very night the servant woke her master up in a fright and said: 'Master of all masters, get out of your barnacle and put on your squibs and crackers. For white-faced simminy has got a spark of hot cockalorum on its tail, and unless you get some pondalorum high topper mountain will be all on hot cockalorum' . . . That's all._

**N.B: So tell me, my dear... What are your words, and who's your servant? :D**

The man did not flinch once, nor did he frown at the last words, added in darker ink. He simply took out a lighter from his inner left pocket, and holding the letter before him, set it alight.

In the quiet darkness of the room, Sherlock watched the fairy tale burn.

* * *

><p><em>Down.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

**.  
><strong>

**.**

* * *

><p><strong><em><em>tbc<em>_  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**[1]** Main characters from _Les Liaisons dangereuses_ (The Dangerous Liaisons), a French epistolary novel by Choderlos de Laclos, first published in 1782. It is the story of the Marquise de Merteuil and the Vicomte de Valmont, two rivals (and ex-lovers) who use sex as a weapon to humiliate and degrade others, all the while enjoying their cruel games. It has been claimed to depict the decadence of the French aristocracy shortly before the French Revolution, thereby exposing the perversions of the so-called Ancien Régime. However, it has also been described as a vague, amoral story. {from Wikipedia}

**[2]** Salome (Greek: Σαλώμη, Salōmē), the Daughter of Herodias (c AD 14 - between 62 and 71), is known from the New Testament (Mark 6:17-29 and Matthew 14:3-11) and Flavius Josephus's Jewish Antiquities. Her name in Hebrew is שלומית (Shlomiẗ, IPA: [ʃlomiθ]) and is derived from the root word ŠLM (שלם), meaning "peace". Salome danced before Herod and her mother Herodias at the occasion of his birthday, and in doing so gave her mother the opportunity to obtain the head of John the Baptist. According to Mark's gospel Herodias bore a grudge against John for stating that Herod's marriage to her was unlawful; she encouraged Salome to demand that John be executed. Christian traditions depict her as an icon of dangerous female seductiveness, for instance depicting as erotic her dance mentioned in the New Testament (in some later transformations further iconised to the dance of the seven veils), or concentrate on her light-hearted and cold foolishness that, according to the gospels, led to John the Baptist's death. {from Wikipedia}


	27. Veni, vidi, vici

**A/N:**_ Because we all love him, no matter what we say. And because he deserves the tribute. Enjoy the interlude! ~¤Zoffoli _

_xXx_

* * *

><p><strong>NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter ΑΩ<strong>_: _**Veni, vidi, vici**

_Moriarty tribute _

* * *

><p>Jim Moriarty's first crime was the murder of young Carl Powers. He was still a child back then, and hated Powers because he always made fun of him. So he found the perfect way to kill him without anyone noticing that it was in fact murder – anyone but Sherlock, of course. But Jim didn't know that. At the time, he only gloated over the fact that they were all idiots, and that they weren't even worth killing. He was glad Carl Powers was dead, but now he was bored. Killing was so easy, it wasn't worth it. He needed much more than that. Something that wouldn't be dull. Something requiring his full intellectual skills. A job he'd have to invent himself.<p>

Sherlock's first case was the murder of young Carl Powers. He was still a child back then, and it upset him that the police didn't take him seriously at all when he told them that the missing pair of shoes was suspicious and that little Carl's death may not have been an accident after all. He didn't care about Carl Powers in the least; it was just a name. But the missing pair of shoes troubled him and that's why he remembered the case: his very first one, and his very first failure too because idiotic policemen weren't even smart enough to _listen_ to him. If all detective inspectors were so stupid, he'd definitely never be one. But what was the point of being a pirate, if you weren't even caught? If you didn't get any recognition at all, and if no one ever found out how brilliant you really were? It'd be too easy. Dull. He needed much more than that. Something that wouldn't be dull. Something requiring his full intellectual skills. A job he'd have to invent himself.

Consulting criminal.

Consulting detective.

* * *

><p><em>Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk<br>I'm a woman's man: no time to talk  
>Music loud and women warm, <em>

_I've been kicked around since I was born._

* * *

><p>They grew to be geniuses in their own ways. They didn't know about each other – at least, Sherlock didn't. Little Jim had heard about that kid who claimed the missing shoes were crucial. He did remember his name, and typed it, years later, on the internet. A website came up: the Science of Deduction. "Consulting detective".<p>

Sherlock Holmes had grown to be a consulting detective. He irritated everyone at uni with his deductions and straightforwardness, and overall, was rather hated for his rudeness. Everything was so boring, there was no job whatsoever he found appealing – and certainly not what _Mycroft_ was doing, which he considered office work. Sherlock wanted to be in the field. He didn't care much for Queen and Country either – what was right, or wrong, was secondary. Good and evil were very vague and relative concepts anyway. What he needed was something so his brain wouldn't rot away. Because that's how boredom felt. He had no bearings whatsoever, there was no direction, the world was absolutely meaningless without a proper case: absurd, and chaotic.

Mycroft thought Sherlock could have been a scientist, but he was wrong: science was useful and a bit fun, but boring in the end. It didn't give a direction. It didn't give a meaning. It gave causes, not reasons. Only people could act for reasons. It was so much more fun to study _both_ science and people as a consulting detective. But at first, it was in drugs that he found the best way to stop his brain from rotting away. He had no cases. His mother was upset he wasn't doing as well as Mycroft, getting a proper job in accordance to his incredible mental capacities; his brother treated him like a baby and always looked down on him patronizingly; he didn't have friends, and he didn't care. Then he was forced into detoxification and realized that cocaine took away the boredom and meaninglessness and nothingness, but didn't give any meaning either. And soon the thrill wasn't even enough. He had to look for something else. Luckily, fate threw D.I. Lestrade in his path, and as he went through the steps of withdrawal at least he could occupy his mind with cases.

He was quite fine, alternating between thrilling times and dull, dead times, depending on whether he was on a case or not. He always occupied himself with research and science in the meantime, busying himself with experiments, but it just wasn't enough. Mycroft introduced him to a woman whose husband's death he ensured on her request, and three years later he was ready to move into a flat she rented. He told Mike Stamford he was looking for a flatmate to share the rent, as he didn't want to rely on Mycroft's or Mummy's money. He met John Watson. Ordinary yet intriguing, faithful and funny John Watson. Around the same time though, he got himself a fan, a fan who decided it was high time to make himself known to the only man in the world with whom it may be worth playing.

* * *

><p><em>But now it's all right. That's OK<br>And you may look the other way  
>We can try to understand<br>The New York Times' effect on man _

* * *

><p>Did you know, Sherlock? The words that the mad old cabbie told you. I whispered them to his ear myself. I couldn't know you'd get yourself a pet during that case of yours I had prepared just for you – yes, just to get your attention. Just so you'd hear of me. And weren't you happy?<p>

"_I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do._

_A man like you. So clever. But what's the point in being clever if you can't prove it?"_

Weren't you excited, Sherlock?

"_Still the addict. But... this is what you're really addicted to. You'd do anything... anything at all, to stop being bored. You're not bored now, are you?"_

The dying old man was smart, but not that smart. I had to suggest it to him. The words were mine, my dear. Had you noticed already back then? That I knew you so well, even though we had never properly met. Or did you think you were beaten by the old man?

Who did you think told him that you'd been an addict? Surely it crossed your mind. A fan... Oh yes, Sherlock, I was your fan. The catch–me–if–you–can type. I'm afraid you didn't catch me, dear.

You didn't even surprise me for that case of yours in which I was pulling the strings. I watched the video, you know. And damaged it for you, too – it doesn't make for a very good image to torture a dying man. Oh, but I knew better: I knew you'd get my name then, Sherlock. I knew you _would_ make him talk. Can't say there's "a dark side to you" – God, that would sound so _cliché_! Not immorality, no... Something worse, something we share, because there's no such thing as good and evil in the face of boredom. Amorality, they say. They who crowd their little heads with nonsense._ I_ say reality. Why do people always overcomplexify everything when they don't understand even the basics? Polluting their already anorexic brains with useless concepts. Such a waste of mental space. Minds like ours clarify things, they don't complicate them unnecessarily. But you lost that strength, Sherlock.

Indeed... I knew you already. What I didn't know was that you'd get yourself another fan just the previous day of that little encounter I had set for you. The _other_ type of fan too, I'd say – but what do you think? Ha, what am I asking! You didn't do much proper thinking about John Hamish Watson, did you? Really... Everything is in the name already. Although I must say, he proved less boring than I thought at first. Bit more perceptive, too. Enough to understand you. Enough to change you.

_"That's how you get your kicks, isn't it. You risk your life to prove you're clever."_

Oh yeah, my dear. Big Brother wasn't the only one watching you. He wasn't the only one who decided to intensify the surveillance after Johnny boy so untimely burst into your life – and into our game.

* * *

><p><em>Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,<br>You're staying alive, staying alive.  
>Feel the city breaking and everybody shaking,<br>And we're staying alive, staying alive.  
>Ah, ha, ha, ha, staying alive, staying alive.<br>Ah, ha, ha, ha, staying alive!_

* * *

><p>Your new pet turned out to be quite the winning pawn, too – although between us, dear, you didn't put him to full use. Take the Black Lotus. Wouldn't it have been so <em>funny<em> if you'd let them kill him and his stupid girlfriend, and kept tracking them in the dark, until you unravelled the whole organization completely? They would've been absolutely bamboozled! What, it wasn't Sherlock Holmes that they'd kill? What a ridiculously amateur error, really. So silly. You could've done something great with such a mistake on their part. But nooo, you didn't think, did you? On second thought, perhaps you did. Which is even worse. You disappointed me, Sherlock, you disappointed me. Well, that Shan woman disappointed me too, because had you been smarter than that and left the doctor to take your place, you could've easily got to me. But she wasn't a problem – I could get rid of her. You, on the other hand... I couldn't believe you'd missed such an opportunity.

The Shan woman was disappointing, but there was something she did that inspired me after all. She thought she'd kidnapped Sherlock Holmes and his pretty girlfriend – how ill-informed of her... But she had a point. I didn't think you had a heart, Sherlock, I really didn't. But you'd just proved me wrong. You'd come to your pet's rescue, and only afterwards you'd sulked like a child because the Black lotus had slipped between your fingers. Well, at least you'd shown me you were good at ciphers, so I left you one just facing your flat. Did you like it? My Egyptian eye. _I'm watching you, Sherlock. And I saw your weakness. One of your many weaknesses. _

The Chinese Mafia had been a client of mine – not part of IOU, thankfully. That woman was too stupid anyway. Another woman, though, noticed you at the time, and couldn't fathom why I was so obsessed with you. Guess she was stupid too, in the end. She did owe me. And so she helped out a bit – she sent you a letter for me. You didn't know her, so you probably couldn't tell, no matter how intelligent you claim to be: but the way she wrote your name... God, my dear, I could tell _she_ was no fan of yours. She's an idiot, so she shouldn't be too much of a threat for you. That is, if you're vigilant.

So she helped out, like all those people who owe me and revere me must help me out whenever I ask, or I'll destroy them; the strongest dots in my network. They're on the smart side, I'd stay, but still... Compared to you, they're all so _boring_. Smart, but only interested in power and money and all those dull human passions. The head rules, certainly, unlike a certain someone – oh, don't lie, dear, you're a kid, and kids are ruled by their temper. But your temper was fiery and your goal was mine: to defeat boredom. Their goals were so ordinary. I wonder if you'll manage to catch them once I'm gone. If you're good and distract me until then, I might give you a hand.

* * *

><p><em>Well, now I get low and I get high<br>And if I can't get either, I really try  
>Got the wings of heaven on my shoes<br>I'm a dancing man and I just can't lose  
>You know, it's all right. It's OK.<br>I'll live to see another day  
>We can try to understand<br>The New York Times' effect on man _

* * *

><p>You didn't even seem to be aware of your new weakness – or rather, of the fact that you'd made it obvious. So I, being the generous heart you know, decided to shock you into the realization – just so no one would take advantage of it. Well, no one except me.<p>

The whole point was to remind you that now, you had weakness: a heart. You were no longer on the same grounds as me, and if you kept playing although you now had things to lose, then... you should be prepared to lose them, dear. You truly did disappoint me.

"**Bought you a little getting-to-know-you present. That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this."**

_No, no, no... you IDIOT. Who cares about those stupid plans? Dull, dull... This isn't what I want from you. What I want is challenge, thrill, _understanding. _Recognition. Because you were smart enough to understand me and to recognize the extent of my genius... weren't you? Weren't you? _

"**Evening."**

In my great magnanimity, I thought I'd be nice and show you how fragile you were before I stroke.

"**This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"**

How weak the fact that you _cared_ made you.

"**John! What the hell...?" **

Big Brother didn't raise you well, Sherly. At first I set everything so you'd think that "Moriarty" was your Johnny boy, and not that he was my hostage.

"**Bet you never saw this coming."**

Oh, Sherlock, the look on your face... I knew it would shock you, but I had only _hoped_ to see hurt there as well. But to such an extent? I was almost jealous. Almost.

"**What... would you like me to make him say... next?"**

I wanted to ingrain in your brain the image of your pet betraying you. Even if you found out a second later that you'd been mistaken – and, dear, how did it feel to be manipulated by me? – the original imprint on your mind would remain. That's what we call trauma, Sherly. And oh how I loved to use your little soldier to traumatize you... I'm sure you got the message all right. _John could have betrayed you, and you wouldn't even have noticed, because you let him come so close to you you don't even notice when he's not in the room anymore and you keep talking to him. I_ _don't think you've noticed yet. He got under your skin, Sherlock, and he could break you irreversibly. _

"**Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear." **

"**Stop it."**

_Oooh, touchy. Don't like people playing with your things perhaps? I'm not surprised. You are rather miserly when it comes to giving your favours to somebody after all. _

"**Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart." **

The betrayal... This gnawing idea that Johnny would turn against you one day and leave your side was clearly – and quite intentionally, I assure you – suggested: _he'll go and marry someone, one day, my dear, and you'll be all alone again. He won't always be by your side, he's under your skin now but he's not part of you and you cannot make him do whatever you please: he's not you, dear, and you can't control him. He can break free from your grasp any time, and do whatever he wants. Isn't it frustrating? _How stupid of you to get addicted to something as fragile and _volatile_ as another human being, Sherlock. _I can stop John Watson. Stop his heart – and stop yours. _

"**Who are you?"**

_Let the door open... Let there be light, my dear. Look at me. _

"**I gave you my number. I thought you might call."**

_Here's another of your looks. I like this one better, I think. The realization. The humiliation of having been played. The awareness that I am much, much stronger than you thought... Umm, I love this!_

"**Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"**

"**Both."**

I always loved your sense of repartee.

"**Jim Moriarty. Hi."**

_No, no, no! You're so readable, dear. It's endearing, all right, but dull, dull... so dull... _

"**Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."**

_Oh well. Let me savour this moment. Finally we meet. But you didn't catch me, Sherlock. I caught you. _

"**Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." **_Especially not to kill your little soldier... He doesn't deserve the attention. _

"**I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."**

"**Dear Jim... please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"**

_Yes, _yes._.. That's how I love you. _**"Just so."**

"**Consulting criminal."**

"**Brilliant, isn't it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."**

"**I did."**

"**You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."**

"**Thank you."**

"**Didn't mean it as a compliment."**

"**Yes, you did." **

_This is why you're so interesting. This is why I love playing with you. Oh, Sherlock... this is why I will love breaking you. _

"**Yeah, OK, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning... my dear. Back off."**

_But you won't, will you? You're addicted to me, now... No one will ever be able to dispel your boredom like I do. _

"**Although I have loved this, this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"**

"**People have died." **_No, no... don't be boring! This is all the doctor's fault..._

"**That's what people DO!"**

"**I will stop you."**

"**No, you won't."**

"**Are you all right?"**

_No, Sherly, no... Why do you talk to him when _I _am here? Do you realize you might not get another chance? _

"**You can talk, Johnny boy." **_Stupid little soldier. Do you realize you'll be the death of him?_

"**Go ahead. Take it."**

_Now you even want me out of the picture. Are you scared, Sherlock? Scared that the sniper will pull the trigger and there will be no John Watson to watch your back anymore? But you're right, I'm afraid he is quite irreplaceable._

"**Mm? Oh... that? The missile plans. Boring! I could have got them anywhere." **

_But that's not why you keep him around, is it? You don't keep him because he's useful and excessively devoted to you. _

I knew already by then... but did you? And did he? Such idiocy.

Oh, I knew all right, but then your pet did something even I hadn't expected: he offered to sacrifice himself in order to save your life! Well, he at least knew where his priorities were, didn't he, Sherlock?

"**Sherlock, run!" **

_Ha ha ha! So that's it... he's a rival, isn't he? He has the power to dispel your boredom sometimes too; to surprise you. Is that it? It must be... since he surprised even me._

"**Good! Very good." **_But you didn't pick the right man to die for, Johnny. You'll come to regret this. _

"**If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."**

"**Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets."**

That was the whole issue, dear. You were getting too sentimental, Sherlock! Oh, but now I could see why. The pet was smitten too.

"**They're so touchingly loyal. But oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha."**

_Idiot. Now I know how to get to you too. The only one left is..._

"**Westwood. Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"**

"**Oh, let me guess. I get killed."**

"**Kill you?" **_You really underestimate me, Sherlock, I'm hurt... just kidding. _

"**No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special." **_But you're boring me. And if you bore me, I'll just go and play with the Iceman. My little virgin... _**"No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you." **_It's true. Some of my people have complained. People who owe me. Oh, I don't care, _I _don't owe them anything... _

"**I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." **

"**But we both know that's not quite true." **_Well, at least I know. Obviously you're not as lucid. _"**Well, I'd better be off. Well, so nice to have had a proper chat." **_Even though it's high time you stop deluding yourself, my dear._

"**What if I was to shoot you now?"**

"**Right now? Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. 'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit...disappointed." **_Even more than just a teensy bit, perhaps. I have such high expectations for you, Sherlock. _**"And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."**

"**Catch you... later."**

"**No, you won't!" **_But I might come and play again._

"**All right? Are you all right?"**

_Tssk. I'm gone and that's your first words?_

"**Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Sherlock... Sherlock! Oh, Christ. Are you OK?" **_Oh, how sweet... How unworthy of you, dear. _

"**Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine. That, er...thing that you... that you did, that, um...you offered to do... that was, um...good."**

_Good? _Good_? Please. That man did something terrible to your vocabulary._

"**I'm glad no one saw that." **

"**Mm?"**

"**You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk." **

"**They do little else."**

_OK, that's the last straw._ _You just almost died – and still, you're flirting? Oh yeah, I forgot... the thrill... that's what shakes your boat, huh?_

"**Oh... Sorry, boys. I'm so changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." **_Unlike some people who seem to collect them. _**"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." **_I just don't know what to do with you anymore, Sherly. _**"I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."**

"**Probably my answer has crossed yours**_**."** _

_You looked at your pet. You just exchanged glances. Even in those last moments, you look for his assent? You've got to be kidding me._

**Ah, ha, ha, ha, staying alive, staying alive.  
>Ah, ha, ha, ha, staying alive!<strong>

_Oh, not now... You've irritated me enough already. Oh well. _

_"_**D'you mind if I get that?"**

**"No, no, please. You've got the rest of your life." **_Ha! You've got some humour, here. _

**"Hello? ... Yes, of course it is. What do you want?"**_  
><strong>'Sorry' <strong>_

_'_**_Oh, it's fine.'_ **

_Oh, I love when it feels like we've always known each other like this! It gets me all excited. This sense of intimacy when I'm about to kill you... Ah, that woman is boring me... Wait, what? _

_"_**SAY THAT AGAIN! Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you. Wait."**

_But if you're not lying... Oh, this is going to be fun, Sherlock! _

_"_**Sorry. Wrong day to die."**

**"Oh. Did you get a better offer?"**

_Oh, no, my dear. Got a better idea. For you. And for Johnny boy – but that's just because you are so sickeningly affectionate towards him._

**"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock."**

_And hopefully this time, you'll be prepared..._

**"So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I will make you into shoes."**_ But I think you will be a great puppet to give the Virgin some more hints about what I'm planning for him. You've given me an idea, Woman. _

* * *

><p><em>Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,<br>You're staying alive, staying alive  
>Feel the city breaking and everybody shaking,<br>And we're staying alive, staying alive  
>Ah, ha, ha, ha, staying alive, staying alive<br>Ah, ha, ha, ha, staying alive!_

* * *

><p>Jim's little change of mind had nothing to do with a better offer. No client – and no one who owed him either – had asked him to get rid of Sherlock Holmes, after all. He'd found the consulting detective rather disappointing at first, and so irritating in his relationship with the doctor. He thought he'd teach him a lesson and show him how vain he was being – how easily John Watson could betray him, how close Sherlock had allowed him to get... To no avail. The moment Sherlock had seen the bombs he'd thought only of his friend's safety. Jim Moriarty was no fool, and knew when someone was talking to him with some unsaid intention. They'd had their little conversation, and Jim had loved the way Sherlock's little soldier had appeared to feel left out and ignored, while the two geniuses exchanged their greetings. He had fun reading his silly little blog, too, and the account he gave of the night at the Pool.<p>

**I still can't quite get my head around it. This game between Sherlock and his... nemesis? Is that the right word? Twelve totally random innocent people had died because of it. I got so angry with Sherlock that morning. He didn't care. He admitted it. He just didn't care. As he pointed out, caring wouldn't save lives. I asked him if he found it easy not to care and he said yes. It was that simple. Maybe Sally Donovan is right. Maybe he is a freak. **

Oh, that must have hurt, Jim thought with a grin. He truly hoped Sherlock was reading John's blog. No. He knew he was. He only regretted he couldn't see the hurt on his face. _Well, all good things come to those who wait... _

**I could see the look in Sherlock's eyes – a flash of, not anger, but hurt. For a second, he looked like a little, lost child. I should have been horrified that he'd even doubt me for a second but, to be honest, it was so refreshingly human of him. He actually did value our friendship. **

Ha ha, the doctor was a funny one! Maybe they'd get along better than he thought at first, Jim mused, an avid smile playing on his lips, his face eerily illuminated by the screen light only. But then his face darkened. Well, hopefully the doctor was putting on a show there. He couldn't possibly be stupid enough not to have realized already – even before the Pool – that Sherlock had been stupid and _cared_. The pet was surely well aware that his master and many people they knew read his blog. It was only natural that he wasn't as straightforward and honest as one may have wished. Moriarty smirked. He didn't care in the least; he could read the good doctor like an open book anyway.

**The two men talked, both clearly pleased to, at last, be face to face. Again, I felt like a pawn in their game. Especially when a laser sight appeared on my chest. One wrong move and some stranger in the dark would shoot the explosives. I watched as they talked. Jim Moriarty was the total opposite to Sherlock but they were also so very alike. He was a consulting criminal. People came to him and he arranged whatever they wanted. And while they talked, I stood there wearing enough explosives to kill all of us. I was the only one who seemed even aware of this. Suddenly, I grabbed Moriarty. I knew that his assistant (his John Watson?) wouldn't kill him. But the laser sight simply moved to Sherlock's head and I was forced to let go. For a second, I wondered if Sherlock would have done the same for me but then all I knew for certain was, at that moment, I knew I was going to die. **

Jim hadn't paid much attention to John during his encounter with Sherlock – he was focused on the one and only consulting detective, after all. Telling him about himself. About what he did... his job. _Oh Sherly, had you guessed already? Did you get it? Consulting criminal was the best choice – the only choice – for me. But it was also because of you... Because you'd decided to become a "consulting detective". Don't know who got the idea first, but you know, I wouldn't have been so excited about it if you hadn't been there. On the other side, opposing me. Our game... Yes, honey, it was ours. It is ours. No John Watson can ever change this. You're me. I'm you. He will never understand you like I do._

**He left and Sherlock ripped the explosives off of me. We were getting our breath back when suddenly so many laser sights appeared. Moriarty returned and said he had changed his mind again! We were going to die, after all. Sherlock simply pointed his gun at the discarded explosives. If we were going to die, so was Moriarty. **

Moriarty snorted in front of the computer. _Getting your breath back, huh? Why are you so scared to say it, Johnny boy? Flirting. You were being intimate there. But nooo, that wouldn't do for your public image, would it? Pathetic. Weaaak, you're so weak, pet. You won't be able to protect him. You won't stop his fall. _John's retelling was definitely far from the truth as far as the man's thoughts and feelings were concerned. Just like that post for "A Study in Pink" where he'd claimed that he found terrifying the thought of someone being able to hold power on the life and death of someone else. At this Jim had burst out laughing. John was quite funny, for a doctor! Really... considering he'd been the killer at the time, his lie was just hilarious.

And so Jim had decided to leave a comment to tell John he didn't buy his crap, and Sherlock that he would be back for him.

**I do like a good story.**

Anonymous** 01 April 13:25 **

**Still alive then?**

Sherlock Holmes** 01 April 13:28 **

**Oh, very much so. See you soon.**

Anonymous** 01 April 13:33 **

Yes, the Woman had given him an idea. _You want love, Sherlock? Sentiments? I'll give you love and sentiments. My little Virgin..._ But he wanted to have some fun with the Iceman now, too. He was curious. Both brothers were so different, yet complementary. They made sense, together, and Jim was almost jealous. He was glad their relationship was so bad, for he knew it hurt Big Brother more than he ever let out, and there weren't many things that held that power. No, Jim thought with a wide grin, Sherlock was probably the only way to get at the Iceman. That, and his job. The British government, was it? Then Jim would strike doubly.

When finally he got what he wanted from the Adler woman, he sent his little text to the man. Again, he regretted he couldn't see the expression on the elder Holmes's face. But Jim knew. He knew he had hit home, and that his message had been received: **Let's play, Mr. Holmes. Let's play :D**

* * *

><p><em>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me<br>Somebody help me, yeah.  
>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah<br>I'm staying alive _

* * *

><p>Jim was a criminal, and Sherlock a detective, but that was accessory: what mattered was that they didn't really take sides. Jim wasn't officially a criminal, he only helped criminals achieve their deeds. He never dirtied his hands. All he did was the thinking, his clients were the real criminals. He'd tried it, and killing wasn't thrilling enough. He never wanted anybody's death after Carl Powers anyway, because it didn't satiate him. Being the puppet master, on the other hand, never bored him. He loved it when people got indebted to him. Especially powerful people – fallen Angels, he thought, smarter than average, but still idiotic enough to be after money, power, contacts... and so on. Moriarty could provide the contacts. He was more brilliant than anyone, and so could master them all. With communication and globalization as it was nowadays, the job he invented for himself was marvellous, he thought. It allowed him to be feared by Mafia leaders, to have quite powerful people dancing on the palm of his hand. At the apex of his career, he created IOU.<p>

Those were the fallen angels who _owed_ _him_. They had key positions, whether in the government, secret services, army, and so on. They were apparently on the side of the Law, but in fact were not. He created their network, and he was at the very centre of the web – _his _web, only fully known to himself. Even IOU people were mere dots on the web, although bigger dots than the others who were only clients. Those fake angels who acted as if they were on the side of the Law, and who could be called the Corrupts, were not really clients. Not associates either, mind you, because Moriarty was much above any of them. But they were his debtors, and he could have them where he wanted when he wanted doing exactly as he wanted. Yes, consulting criminal was the perfect job, and he never, ever thought anyone would be similar enough to him to create the pendant job: consulting detective. He was thrilled when he found out. Sherlock wasn't the smartest man in the world, but to Moriarty, he was more interesting than even Mycroft because just like Jim himself, he was neither an Angel, nor a Devil. It was only contingent, so to speak, that he ended up being on the "good" side, and Moriarty on the side of the "villains". Other than that, they were the same, exactly the same.

Except they were on different sides technically, and so they could play the game against each other. It would have been too bad if they'd have the exact same job. They would have been mere rivals, but as they were, they were archenemies. Each other's pendant and nemesis. So Jim played, and enjoyed himself greatly. Until he realized that the balance had been disturbed by the arrival of one John Watson. He realized he'd been wrong about something. They weren't exactly the same: Sherlock had _friends._ He _cared._ What an idiot. He tried to show him at the Pool, but was surprised by the doctor's reaction.

That dull, ordinary man was actually smart enough to realize Sherlock's life was worth a thousand times his! Except that wasn't all there was, was it? By that time he knew. Sherlock wasn't after power and didn't aim to be a puppet master on a global scale. He didn't have to hide and lead a double life (or more like hundred different lives). He didn't suffer from high-functioning sociopathy: he suffered from high-functioning autism. Many people made fun of him, but he never killed any. He didn't want to be the manipulator in the shadows, like his brother Mycroft: he wanted to be under the spotlight and get _some_ recognition from _someone._ More like a lost puppy than anything, really. As Moriarty was getting bored with his criminal empire, his nemesis Sherlock Holmes was falling in love. Valiant, proud and righteous John Watson was turning Sherlock Holmes into a dull, ordinary man. It was so pathetic Moriarty thought he'd give Sherlock another kind of fall before leaving the stage himself.

* * *

><p><em>Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,<br>I'm a woman's man: no time to talk  
>Music loud and women warm,<br>I've been kicked around since I was born  
>And now it's all right. It's OK.<br>And you can look the other way  
>Or we can try to understand<br>The New York Times' effect on man _

* * *

><p>So he set up a final problem – <em>their<em> final problem: to Live or Not to Live? And if to Live, how?

Every hero needs a good old villain. Conversely, every villain needs a good old hero.

"Without me, you're nothing", he told Sherlock once he'd started becoming famous after the Reichenbach Falls case. Moriarty enjoyed playing with his nemesis – he liked to watch him dance. He knew for certain that even if Sherlock got the plan eventually, he wouldn't expect him to kill himself for good. He wouldn't understand until the very end of his ordeal (after he, Jim Moriarty, first of his kin, was dead), what the final problem truly was.

"Final": it meant the last problem, of course, the ultimate one ; but also the most important one, their most important one.

The one that should answer the question: What's the point?

The one whose answer should leave no doubt.

The most fundamental one, just like the final was the principal note in a mode.

To live, or not to live?

* * *

><p><em>Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,<br>You're staying alive, staying alive.  
>Feel the city breaking and everybody shaking,<br>And we're staying alive, staying alive.  
>Ah, ha, ha, ha, staying alive, staying alive<br>Ah, ha, ha, ha, staying alive!_

* * *

><p>Jim's little pun to Mycroft with Irene Adler and the failed Coventry bis had enabled the Iceman to catch him – which had all been, naturally, part of the plan.<p>

What Mycroft Holmes wanted was fairly simple: he didn't care about petty criminals, not even about the Chinese Mafia and whatnot. What he wanted was the complete list of the I.O.U. "members". Those who played Angels but were in fact on the side of the Devils, though not Devils themselves: they didn't get their hands dirty. Angels weren't really any better, if you thought about it. And Moriarty did, as he was _lawfully_ tortured for weeks, months perhaps. _Gewaltmonopol des Staates_. The monopoly of legitimate violence that the State – whichever it was – always held. Jim Moriarty wasn't one who'd talk if he didn't want to, though. Especially when he could get something in exchange for the information Big Brother wanted from him. He accepted to give some, but only about his clients, not the IOU people – and only in exchange for information about Sherlock.

It was necessary to his scheme, and he also wanted to know everything, absolutely everything about his nemesis before he left this dull and boring world for good. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes, the one man in the world who invented the pendant job to his, was the most interesting thing he'd ever get, and he wanted to take everything he could about him to his grave. And to make him fall.

After weeks, or months, Moriarty finally told Mycroft his brilliant little scheme. "Release me, and let me play one last game with your dear little brother. Then you shall have all the names you want on a platter – and all the information you need to bring them down. Do we have a deal?" The Iceman refused categorically at first, but Jim knew he'd eventually come round. Perhaps he thought he and his brother were clever enough not to be outsmarted by the consulting criminal. Or perhaps he just thought the name list was worth the risk anyway. Moriarty was thrilled. They had a deal.

Sherlock Holmes had nothing such as a private life. Moriarty – or Mycroft, for that matter – were everywhere, and watched his every move. Mycroft wasn't the only one who heard the conversation he had over the phone with Sherlock, when the detective called him from Dartmoor.

"Hello, brother dear! How are you?"

Sherlock "negotiated" to have twenty-four hours in the top secret military base to do whatever he wanted (and oh how thrilled Jim had been to find out, much later, that he'd been experimenting on _John; _testing his own cruelty and indifference, too). And so the two brothers made a deal. A _negotiation_.

"Fine, Sherlock. I'll let you experiment all you want.

But you'll owe me a favour.

_You'll owe me._"

What Jim wasn't aware of was...  
>That Sherlock feared him greatly and became aware of it as he saw his nemesis' face while hallucinating in the fog on the moor.<p>

That Sherlock tried to completely manipulate John to prove that he could control him – to reassure himself. He knew that Moriarty had sent the Woman, since she'd said it herself. He'd heard of his nickname, too. _The Virgin_. John wasn't his, and was free to leave whenever he wanted. John was another human being, one that had effect on him, and even several effects, but that was beyond his own power.

That Sherlock had felt more fear and doubt in two days in Baskerville than ever in his life.

That he'd doubted what he'd seen. And John hadn't understood. John had been angry with him and Sherlock had to explain. That he'd seen it, but couldn't believe it... just like John did not believe him.

And finally, neither Jim nor Sherlock was yet aware of the fact that this was exactly what the consulting detective was going to use on John in the final problem. Like the experiment he had performed on him in the lab, he would disorient him and manipulate him so he would believe that he truly had committed suicide.

"_Fine, Sherlock. I'll let you experiment all you want. _

_But you'll owe me a favour. _

You'll owe me._" _

* * *

><p><em>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me<br>Somebody help me, yeah.  
>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah<br>I'm staying alive. _

* * *

><p>And so Moriarty could put his plan into action. Sherlock was becoming famous. Most IOU people didn't care at all, but some of them who knew about Moriarty's obvious interest in him thought of him as a threat. Moriarty told them he'd get rid of him, but wanted to do it <em>their <em>way: with a game. One Sherlock was bound to lose. Moriarty's master plan was to completely play the IOU people about whom he couldn't care less and who were boring, and have his fun with Sherlock as they cocked a snook at Holmes the elder. He wanted to leave the stage, but he wanted to do it most dramatically, doing his one-man show under the spotlight, and inviting Sherlock along. The end of the fairy tale was soon to come – and the beginning of Sherlock's quest.

He broke into the three most guarded places in Great Britain, wearing the Crown jewels – being the absolute King. He showed the world at his trial that no one would ever stop him if he didn't want to be stopped, and used the jury's _hearts_ to manipulate them – a little clue intended for Sherlock. _Careful my dear, you have one too, now~! _But he still felt something was missing in the perfect balance of their enmity – something was missing on the board. Sherlock had John. Moriarty needed his own "pet", not as long as he was alive really, but most of all to complete the plan after his own (and very real) suicide. He picked Sebastian Moran, because he was devoted and not too stupid – also, he must admit, because of the name, like old Johann. He always liked little puns on words.

* * *

><p><em>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me<br>Somebody help me, yeah.  
>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah<br>I'm staying alive. _

* * *

><p>Violin Sonata n°1 in G minor, BWV 1001, Adagio.<p>

A step creaking. A pause. Resuming the playing.

The door screeching: the cue. Sherlock stops playing.

**"Most people knock."** He shrugs.**"But then you're not most people, I suppose. Kettle's just boiled"**

Jim notices the red apples and picks one.

**"Johann Sebastian would be appalled." **_Because you interrupted your piece for me, Sherlock..._** "May I?"**

Sherlock finally turns to look at him.

"**Please."**

_Of course_, Jim muses. _The pet's seat? No thank you. _He goes to sit on Sherlock's chair and starts to cut into the apple with his penknife as Sherlock serves them some tea.

**"You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end..."**

"**... and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it."**

**"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody." **_Can't say it any more poetically, honey. _

**"Neither can you. That's why you've come."** _Oh, don't act so sure of yourself and so proud about it. Really..._

"**But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."**

**"What, with the verdict?" **

_No, no, Sherly! Don't play dumb. We don't have time for that. Be clever, for once._

**"With me ... back on the streets."** He looks him in the eye, and smirks. **"Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain."** The smirk turns into a grin, and Sherlock turns away, apparently to add some milk to his tea. Jim goes on.

**"You need me, or you're nothing." **He studies his face for a second, but Sherlock's traits remain blank. **"Because we're just alike, you and I – except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels,"** he sighs in disappointment, shaking his head.

**"Got to the jury, of course."** Sherlock comments dully. Seriously... as if there were stupid people watching and who'd need all the explaining.

**"I got into the Tower of London; you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?" **Jim retorts, tone more bored than offended.

**"Cable network." **_Yes, dear, indeed...Why did you think of it for the jury and not for the Tower? _  
><strong>"Every hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen... and every person has their pressure point; someone that they want to protect from harm." <strong>_Well, you would know, wouldn't you now, Sherlock? _**"Easy–peasy."** Jim looks up at the man facing him, a perfect mirror image in his posture and gestures. _Oh, dear, I've been waiting for this._

"**So how're you going to do it..."** He blows softly on his tea, and if Jim didn't know better, he'd think he was flirting. _Then again, when don't you? Flirt with fire... Sherlock. _

" **... 'burn me'?"**

**"Oh, that's the problem – the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet?"** Sherlock looks up at him and they lock gazes. **"What's the final problem?"** Jim smiles. _So you haven't, huh? _He adopts his favourite sing–song voice but keeps it quiet so as not to break the ambiance... and the lingering threat. **"I did tell you... but did you listen?" **_You're losing, Sherlock. You're falling already. Look at you. Just look at you, ingraining my drumming fingers into your memory... I can do everything I want with your mind, Sherlock. Anything at all. _**"How hard do you find it, having to say "I don't know"?"**

**"I don't know." **_Honey, that's how I love you. _Jim chuckles.

**"Oh, that's clever; that's very clever; awfully clever. Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"**

"**Told them what?"**

**"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."**

"**No."**

"**But you understand."** _Come on, I want to hear all your stupid little theories... Because obviously, you didn't get it. Yet. You underestimate yourself, Sherly. You can't fathom that I'm doing all of this for YOU. For us. _

"**Obviously."**

**"Off you go, then."**

**"You want me to tell you what you already know?"**

**"No; I want you to prove that you know it." **_I want you to entertain me, Sherlock. Come on. It's all gonna happen so fast... don't make our last few weeks boring, dear. _

**"You didn't take anything because you don't need to."**

"**Good."** _I don't need anything. Anything but the thrill and the challenge, and there's none of that in the Tower of London, in Pentonville Prison or in the Bank of England. But you don't need anything either, do you, Sherlock? Nor anyone… or do you, dear? _

**"You'll never need to take anything ever again." **_Idiot. I never needed to take anything in the first place. I was wrong, Sherlock. You do need something. We both do. _

**"Very good. Because ...?"** _Recognition, my dear. Recognition... You've got your pet, dying of admiration at your feet. But be honest: I'm the only one who can give you proper recognition. Who can appreciate your talents for what they truly are... My little genius. _

**"Because nothing ... _nothing_ in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."**

_You're a fool. But I'm not going to tell you yet. Why should I spoil the game. Let's have some fun, Sherly... I want to see the expression on your face once realization hits you. _Jim should've admitted that he enjoyed the little teacher–student play greatly as well – as if he were making Sherlock recite his lesson. **"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I own secrecy. Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should see me in a crown." **_Question is... which one?_ He smirks up at his pendant.

**"You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do."**

**"And you were helping."** _Because you're getting famous too, Sherlock..._ **"Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities ... terrorist cells. They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."**

**"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"** _Now you're asking the right questions._

**"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. "Daddy loves me the best!" Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one." **_Well, that's an idea... in fact, I just might. _

**"Why _are_ you doing all of this?"**

**"It'd be so funny."** _To have a live-in ordinary person, like you got yourself your pet soldier. Then we'd really be symmetric. Well, of course, until..._

**"You don't want money or power – not really."** _No. That's what those dull people who owe me want_, Jim muses as he carves the letters into the apple.

**"What is it all for?"** _Aw, come on, Sherly... have you even thought about it? Or have you been too busy having your own fun with your little cases, fame and the doctor? _

**"I want to solve the problem – _our_ problem; the final problem."** _I'll tell you the truth, then, my dear. Just once. **"**_**It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. But don't be scared."** _Because I know you are. You're weak, now. You've got something to lose._ **"Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination."** _I'll bring you hell on a platter._

Sherlock stands up nervously, somewhat unnerved as if he'd heard the thoughts, and readjusts his jacket.

"**Never liked riddles."**

"**Learn to."**

Mimicking him, Jim stands up as well and straightens his jacket. They stare at each other intensely.

"**Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ... _owe_ ... you." **_And you won't have any more clues, dear. Me and Big Brother have given you enough already. _

_Daily Express_

**MORIARTY WALKS FREE**

**Shock verdict at Old Bailey trial**

The Judge could only look on

dumbfounded as the Jury found

'Jimbo' Moriarty 'Not Guilty'.

Gasps were heard around

the courtroom as the Jury

declared their verdict.

_The Guardian _

**Shock verdict at trial**

In an unbelievable turn of events Moriarty

walked free today after putting up no defence

at all for what has been described as the Trial

of the Century. Star witness Sherlock Holmes

was not present for the verdict as in another

twist to the case was thrown out of court by

the Judge. Questions have been asked in

Parliament and the Prime Minister was quoted

as saying "This is a disgrace, a sign

if ever we needed one that broken

Britain is still broken..."

_Daily Star_

**How was he ever acquitted**

_The Guardian _

**Moriarty vanishes**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Under a cartoon caricature of Sherlock holding a crystal ball, the caption reads: _What Next for the Reichenbach Hero?_

Jim smirks.

* * *

><p><em>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me.<br>Somebody help me, yeah  
>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah<br>I'm staying alive._

* * *

><p><strong>Come and play.<br>Bart's Hospital rooftop.  
>SH<br>PS. Got something  
>of yours you might<br>want back. **

A gleeful grin spreads on Moriarty's features.

The grin widens some hours later as he observes John leave in a cabbie from Bart's rooftop. _You lost, soldier. I win. But then again, you were never much more than a pawn. The losing one. _

He types.

**I'm waiting...  
>JM <strong>

Sherlock finally arrives as the day breaks.

**"Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem." **

Jim holds up his phone, playing the Bee Gee's song.

"**Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?"** He abruptly switches the music off in annoyance.

"**It's just... staying."** _But you didn't get bored, did you, Sherly? You found something to make boredom bearable... Dull. _

**"All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."**

Jim relishes the way Sherlock's head turns sharply at the words. _Oh yes, Sherly... and we both know how much you hate losing, huh? _**"And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them!"** He lowers his head in despair and rubs his face before dropping the act and adding, a smirk in his voice: **"Ah well."**

Standing, he walks up to his nemesis and starts pacing around him slowly in a predatory manner.

"**Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"**

"**Richard Brook."**

"**Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."**

**"Of course."**

**"Attaboy."**

"**Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach – the case that made my name." **_Indeed, dear, indeed... But is that all? What's the true richness of Bach, Sherlock?_

"Just tryin' to have some fun." _For the last time. _

As he notices Sherlock's fingers beating in his back, Jim's face lights up slightly. Maybe Sherlock did get it after all... Maybe they could finally play on the same stage, and for the same audience. _Let's have the best final scene the world has ever seen, Sherlock. Let's give them all we've got... _

"**Good. You got that too."**

**"Beats like digits. Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."**

**"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy."** Jim broke into laughter mentally. He could only picture his clients' faces as they heard the words – as those who owed him heard the words, at least, as they were surely watching. But God, it was worth it.

**"Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty." **

Jim stares at Sherlock for a few seconds, and for an instant he wonders if the detective truly got it. He shrugs it off. Maybe he does have incredible acting skills. Or maybe he still doubts, too. _Oh, I see. You got it... but you hope you're wrong. You _hope_. How quaint. _

He turns away in disappointment, burying his head in his hands. **"No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy. This is too easy... There is no key, DOOFUS! Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless."** _But you know, don't you? Don't you? _Doubt starts gnawing in Moriarty's chest as he sees the confusion on Sherlock's face. _Tell me you're just a bloody good actor. _

"**You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."**

"**But the rhythm..."**

**"Partita number one. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."**

**"But then how did..."**

"**Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison? Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants."** _I sent them a nice little text, Sherly. _"It's show time!" _And it is. You have realized, haven't you? You're me, Sherlock, you're me... you can't possible have not realized yet. _Jim didn't realize he was, as ever, Sherlock's pendant: he too was doubting. He too was hoping.

"**I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever."** _When will you get that half the things I do are caused by people's stupidity and me taking advantage of it? Something you do, too, Sherlock... _**"Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."**

Sherlock stares blankly in the distance, and hope burns up again in Jim's chest.

"**Do it? Do – do what?" **He blinks. **"Yes, of course. My suicide."**

Now, Jim can truly revel in his expression. There's no hope left in it – and conversely hope bursts out inside of the consulting criminal and he gloats. _Yes, Sherlock. You'll have to do it. You'll have to take my place and abandon all your friends... Take my place, and abandon your pet. I'm not too cruel, though. I left you another one. _  
><strong>"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales."<strong>

As Sherlock leans down, looking over the edge of the roof to the ground below, Jim keeps mimicking his moves and leans in too. **"And pretty Grimm ones too."** He turns to look at Sherlock's face, enjoying his own joke – and his triumph.

They face each other for a moment.

"**I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."**

**"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort."** He whines wearily, getting exasperated. But Sherlock turns away and paces, looking distracted rather than depressed. It annoys Jim to no end. **"Go on. For me. Pleeeeeease?"** He squeals. _It's no fun if I'm the only one to kill myself. Come on. You can choose to die, or to fake your death, I don't care. But I can tell you something, Sherlock: you _will_ jump. _

Suddenly Sherlock grabs his archenemy by his collar and spins him around, shoving him near the edge. _Ooh, interesting. You're losing it now. _

**"You're insane."**

Jim blinks, disbelieving – and perhaps a teensy bit playful, too.

"**You're just getting that now?"**

Sherlock shoves him further back and Jim sighs, holding his hands out wide. **"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."** _Just so you really look like a hero... my little Reichenbach hero._ **"Your friends will die if you don't." **A grin spreads on Jim's face as fear creeps into Sherlock's.

"**John."** _Ooh, now you're playing. But of course, he comes first. _

"**Not just John. Everyone."**

**"Mrs. Hudson."**

**"Everyone." **Jim grins in delight.

**"Lestrade." **_Here we go. _

"**Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims."** _That's what you wanted to know, isn't it? If you'd calculated correctly. If you hadn't missed one. Oh, now I know you're acting – but Sherly, Sherly, we're playing together! You don't have to play _me_ now! _**"There's no stopping them now.** **Unless my people see you jump."**

Jim admires Sherlock's acting for a while – his heavy breathing, the horror dawning on his face. The distress. _Well, maybe you're not faking that as much as you wish you were. _He smiles up at him ecstatically. **"You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless ..."**

**" ... unless I kill myself – complete your story."**

Moriarty nods, his grin broadens. _Our story, Sherlock. _

**"You've gotta admit that's sexier." **_Just like that lost look on your face. What are you thinking about, dear? _

**"And I die in disgrace."**

**"Of course. That's the point of this."**

As he looks over the side, Jim studies the scene and his lips curve up.

"**Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop." **_Whatever you're thinking... or rather, whoever you're thinking about. You have this all planned too. I'm glad, Sherly. I truly hope you got everything, though. If you take my place, you'll die, and never see your friends again. And if you don't take my place... Well, you'll live, and never see your friends again. Or see them and die, bringing them down with you. Your pick, honey. _**"Go on."**

He keeps gloating as Sherlock steps onto the ledge.** " I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."**

**"Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy?" **Jim stares, basking for an instant in the anguish of his pendant's face. **"Please?"** _Now, _that_ is a bit overacted, dear... _But deep down, he knows it isn't. Sherlock truly doesn't want to jump. He's still hoping. Hoping to find a way out, hoping that he won't have to "kill" himself in front of the one man who truly got to him – and who proved to be his downfall. _You fool. _

"**Of course." **

_You've lost, Sherlock. You'll do just what I say, because you don't want them to die, and there's no way out. It's a vicious circle you've created here. You want to protect them, but you don't want to leave – and that's why it is so easy to... _His train of thought is abruptly interrupted by Sherlock's vibrant laughter. He turns around abruptly – fury on his face, and hope, hope... _Will you surprise me in the end? _

**"What? What is it?" **His tone is angry. Expectant.** "What did I miss?"**

**"_You're_ not going to do it. So the killers _can_ be called off, then – there's a recall code or a word or a number."**

The roles are reversed, and now Sherlock is pacing around Jim, circling his prey. The consulting criminal is exulting inside. _Now _you_ are mirroring me... Oh, you'd better not be giving me false hope, Sherlock._

"**I don't have to die… if I've got you."** Jim feels delectation filling him as he hears Sherlock mimicking even his own sing–song voice. He allows the delight to reach his face.

**"Oh!"** He laughs in relief. _So that's your hope? Ha ha! Sherlock, you got everything, all right... but there's one thing, one crucial thing you didn't guess..._ **"You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"**

**"Yes. So do you."** _You're right. I do. _We_ do. That's why I planned everything out consequently... that's why I brought the gun. _

**"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."** _Only you. There's only you. _

**"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."**

Here it is again. Hope. But Jim shakes his head.

**"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the Angels."** _That's why you don't want to jump, honey, you don't _want_ to become me... Well, we shall see about that. _

**"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."**

Their eyes lock, and in that instant Jim can read everything – everything behind the burning pupils. His own eyes widen.

**"No, you're not."**

He blinks, then closes his eyes again briefly – and Sherlock mirrors his movement. Jim's smile becomes Cheshire cat-like: he's insanely happy. _You couldn't have given me a better farewell gift, Sherlock. _

**"I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me."** He laughs, overwhelmed. His voice becomes high–pitched and he thinks this is the best possible way it could have ended – he only regrets that he won't be there to see the look on Sherlock's face once he's shot himself.** "You're me! _Thank_ you!"**

At first he lifts his hand as if he were about to hug Sherlock, but on second thought lowers it and offers it to him. _You wanna shake hands in hell? Well, patience, my dear... You'll be in hell very soon. _**"Sherlock Holmes." **_I am so glad to have met you. It was a fun game. You made it all better. But I'm tired of it now, you see? Our time has come to pass. The game is over, Sherlock. _He nods gratefully as Sherlock takes his hand. **"Thank you. Bless you."** _And it's all the blessings you'll get._

He blinks again. **"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out."** He keeps blinking, head lowered. The music was playing in his head, and he had Sherlock's gaze on him. Everything was perfect.

Jim Moriarty had planned everything in advance and was overjoyed when he saw Sherlock had finally understood: _"You're me. You're me!"_ His emotion was a bit overacted, but his _"Thank you"_ was sincere. This was perfect. Sherlock wasn't an Angel after all. He wasn't ordinary. He was just like him. He'd take his place in the centre of the web, and that would be his trial.

His final trial.

_To live, or not to live? And if to live, how? _

**"Well... Good luck with that."**

* * *

><p><em>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me.<br>Somebody help me, yeah  
>Life going nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah<em>

_I'm staying alive!_

* * *

><p>BANG.<p>

**.**

**.**

**.**


	28. In vino veritas

**A/N: So finally, Chapter 27. Don't hate me for the cliffhanger, next chapter is also John-centric, and he will be a lot less drunk... hopefully ;) Reviewers are loved! ****_**~Zoffoli**_**

******Edit:** ****This chapter was kindly betaed by BritChick101. All my thanks!

**...**

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"__  
><em>

_**In vino veritas : **__"In wine lies truth"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXVII: <strong>_**In vino veritas **_

_Blood brothers, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>If you knew me, would you save that seat for me?<br>If you knew me, would you finally let me free?  
>We're all blood, we're all blood, blood brothers<br>We're all blood, we're all blood, blood brothers_

* * *

><p>It is already six when John runs out of the store with the wine bottle he's bought for dinner, and of course there is no cab to be hailed. Only Sherlock seemed to have the inexplicable power to summon them as he stepped on the pavement of London's streets.<p>

Sighing, John walks a little, hoping to get a cab at the crossroad. It has been a busy week. After the hectic coffee at Molly's flat, where he met Shinwell for the second time, and the night out with Mike, he's been quite preoccupied with a patient at the clinic – a pregnant woman who is not getting a lot of support, if at all – and then his very short nights have started to weigh down on him a bit.

Not that he is that sleepless now, mind you. He just spends hours writing Sherlock's adventures from the time before they met, trying to make them sound as exciting as if he'd been there. He is still strangely fascinated with the man, and can never cease to admire his deductive skills. Since most of the time he does not know how Sherlock solved all those cases, John has to do a lot of thinking, a lot of research, or a lot of talking with Lestrade and people who have been involved at the time. Everyone, except Mycroft.

He finally gets into a cab and gives the address to the driver. Mycroft, he muses. His hatred for the elder Holmes has cooled down, only to become more tenacious. John would make no scene if he saw him again. He would not shout, nor would he insult him. But he would kill him. Because he had known – he _must_ have known – what would happen. And he had done nothing. Nothing to save his own brother. Oh, surely he must have had reasons – Queen and country and whatnot – and John respects that. Consequently, he would not have recourse to any curse words. But he would use the bullet. One could recognize a choice, and make an entirely different one. He could never forgive Mycroft.

"Sir. Sir?"

John starts. Meeting the impatient cabbie's gaze, he realizes he has been ranting mentally for the whole drive, and has already arrived. He really is losing track of time, he notes absent-mindedly.

"It's fourteen pounds fifty, sir," the driver repeats, showing the counter. John smiles perfunctorily and pays him before getting out of the cab nimbly. For some insane reason John is sure to never understand, Harry told him to meet her at the bakery before coming, so he could help her choose the bread. Chris is a cook, so obviously she'd know better, but no, it had to be him. To be fair, he gave up trying to understand Harry when he was twelve.

As he just stands there like an idiot in front of the shop, not getting in (and who picks a bakery in the middle of a fairly frequented street as a meeting place?), he notices a woman passing by on the other side of the road. He sees her coming down from a good distance, because she has the longest legs he's ever seen – not in a disproportionate way, of course, just... Well, the kind of legs any man – and any woman, really – notices on the street. He looks up to check her face, and is dumbfounded to see that her eyes are fixed on him. He blinks; she smiles.

"Hey, bro!"

As he turns to Harry, still in a daze, the woman turns away from him and soon disappears down the street. Just a stranger passing by, really. A beautiful woman smiling at you like it happens every day. _Used to happen_, corrects the part of John's brain that is still functioning, sounding awfully like Sherlock.

Right. Recently, John has been noticing members of the fair sex a bit more, and he is quite aware of it. He used to see nothing at all on the streets of London. Then he saw broken memories and ghosts, a shadow haunting the city. A shadow he kept chasing and chasing...

The shadow is still there, and the memories too. But John is making them alive again through his writing and through his outings around London, discovering and exploring in depth the city Sherlock loved so much. Now John starts seeing the city as he used to see it too, before Sherlock's death. The colours are slowly coming back, new ones as well, and the whole picture is both familiar and foreign in a strange, multi-layered way, with a revolutionary perspective, Sherlock's absence being the vanishing point. John idly wonders whether Sherlock would have preferred to be in the foreground, in the middle of it all. But he discards the thought. Obviously Sherlock would've enjoyed a lot more being the untraced point where all the lines receding from the observer converge.

"Hum... John? Are you all right?"

"Yes, sorry."

"She wasn't even that pretty, you know."

He tilts his head to the side, wondering who in the world she is talking about.

"That woman with legs like Syd Charris?"

"Syd Charris? God Harry, update your references."

"You're one to talk. Daydreaming about strangers like that and not even listening to me."

"Sorry. But I wasn't daydreaming about her anyway."

He smiles amusedly. She glares, annoyed.

"Oh God, John, find yourself a dog or a wife or something! Anything!"

The words make him break into a fit of giggles as they enter the bakery.

"Right, a dog or a wife, same thing."

Harry rolls her eyes and ignores people in the queue who are sending them perplexed glances.

"You know that's not what I meant."

No. He exactly knows what she meant when she introduces him to the lovely blonde who serves them and gives them back their change.

"Hello, Mary! This is my brother John."

"Hello," she says with a smile.

John smiles back automatically, giving a small nod.

"He's having dinner with us tonight, and Sebastian too actually – I've told you about him as well, right? Don't know at what time you finish, but if you want to come for dessert..."

"Well, maybe..."

She glances at the very long queue waiting behind them, and sends an apologetic look to the siblings.

"I'll text you."

"Sure, dear. Later!"

Once they are out, John turns to his sister, disbelieving and quite irritated – but careful not to be too snappy. Things are going well between them thanks to Chris, and he doesn't want to spoil it. Still...

"Don't tell me you're trying to hook me up."

"Fine. I won't tell you."

"Harry!"

"John, you need to find someone! You're already forty-two, and if you want to be a father, you–"

"Look, I don't want to be a father, and I–"

"Stop being so stubborn. You haven't dated anyone, not a single girl since..."

"Since Sherlock has died, yes. Please just say it, it isn't a taboo."

She simply nods, understanding for once.

"Since he's died, you haven't dated anyone – well, not seriously anyway, or I would've known... Right?"

She sends him one of those kicked puppy looks and he sighs in exasperation.

"Perhaps not, Harry, but the fact is, I didn't. I had sex, or tried, succeeded, failed, failed miserably, and succeeded and failed more miserably..."

She arches an eyebrow as they turn into her street, apparently not quite getting what he's saying there.

"Listen, it doesn't matter! I don't want to be hooked up. If I find someone, fine, but just... No. This is just too gloomy."

"It's not gloomy!" Harry exclaims, raising her hands in dramatic despair. "Mary Wilson is a wonderful woman! You shouldn't just judge her because she is working in a bakery. She's a friend of your sister, you meet her over dessert at dinner..."

"...and that was not at all arranged by said sister..."

"That's not the point!"

"Yes, it is!"

"You're such a romantic!"

"But it is not your business, Harry!"

They stop at the door of the building, and look each other in the eye. They're both quite angry with each other by now, and know it. They also know that Chris and probably Seb are waiting up there, all happy to see them, not wanting a quarrel that would ruin the evening.

John sighs and runs a hand in his hair.

"Look, Harry, I... I appreciate the intention, really. I have nothing against that Mary Wilton, whatever her name is, or any of your friends, just... Don't try to hook me up with one of them. I am going out, I am seeing women–"

"Then what happens? You're just no good with sex anymore?"

John's eyes widen at his little sister's question, and he rubs them.

"I am not having this conversation with you, Harry. But no, that is not the problem. Not really. Maybe. Look, it doesn't matter! I'm just not interested."

She stares for a second, then seems to give up and lets out a sigh.

"Fine. We'll talk about it later." _No, we won't,_ John thinks. "For now, let's just go up and have fun with everyone."

'Everyone' seems to be happy enough with seeing them both arrive safely with the bread for the cheese and the sauce, and soon they're chatting about nothing around a table covered with a delicious meal prepared by the cook of the family.

John finds Chris especially stunning tonight, and Harry keeps sending him looks that clearly tell him: _Do not touch. That one's taken._ Which is utterly ridiculous, because Chris is gay, and John wouldn't go for his sister's wife anyway, for goodness' sake!

"So you were on a trip last week, Seb? I didn't see you much at the restaurant," Chris remarks.

"Missed me?" Sebastian inquires with a grin.

Harry frowns, and Chris laughs.

"Nope, not at all."

Sebastian pouts and drinks a sip of wine to comfort himself, which seems to work quite well, for a second later he is beaming again, and turns to John.

"I went to Italy!" he says excitedly, and John wonders why he is telling him of all people. "You see," he continues, leaning in towards the doctor obliviously, "I went there because I had an aunt who once knew a man who had a friend, whose girlfriend had a very nice house in Sicily... Just kidding. I won't tell you about that. It was still fun, though."

"What did you do?"

"Oh, you know. Shot a few people here and there. Had lunch with ambassadors."

Harry rolls her eyes.

"Here we go again."

"That's true though! In a very nice restaurant – not as good as yours, though, Christie."

"Don't call her that, you prick!"

"Haha, sorry, sorry."

"So, you shot a few people, of course, since you are a gunman," Chris continued, joining in the game for fun, "and you had lunch with ambassadors... to poison them I presume?"

Sebastian looks at her with horror.

"To poison them? God no! I'm a gunman, Chris, gunmen don't poison people!"

They all laugh at his theatrical outrage, and the rest of the evening is spent in good humour and cheerfulness.

* * *

><p><em>If you loved me, would you hold on to my hand?<br>If you loved me, would you finally understand?  
><em>_That we're all blood, we're all blood, blood brothers  
>We're all blood, we're all blood, blood brothers<em>

* * *

><p>Because Seb invites him to the pub and John has already planned to spend the evening there with Lestrade, he calls the D.I. to check if him coming would be a problem. Naturally, it isn't, and so they all meet there and John does the introductions.<p>

"Seb, this is Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. Greg, this is Sebastian Moran, ex-colonel in the army, who was actually in Afghanistan but whom I had never met before and whois rich enough to have a private income so who's basically an idler."

"Hey!" Seb exclaims, nudging him. But his smile is as bright as ever and he shakes Lestrade's hand warmly. "Although, to be fair, he's quite right."

The topics are rather general at first, but then they get to the usual ones John has with Lestrade when they see each other: namely Mycroft ("I'll never forgive him."/"But you should. He couldn't have done anything, he probably did his best; plus he helped _me_ a lot when I was moved away from London and was in a terrible situation financially and morally and..."/"Good for you. Still hate him."), Sherlock, and women ("John, you should get a wife.").

Since Seb is there tonight, they skip the Mycroft stage and go on to the Sherlock one – not actually discussing the character, which Lestrade seems to consider too intimate a topic. He isn't sure whether John would want to discuss it with his new friend. So they talk about Sherlock's old cases.

"There was that crazy one we got from a guy who came from Sussex with his family," Greg says. "He actually thought his wife had been bitten by a vampire, and that she was now regularly drinking blood from their infant... He came all the way down to the Met because he said the police in Sussex did not believe him."

Seb's and John's eyes become as wide as saucers. John breaks out laughing, but Seb just stares, nonplussed.

"He was crazy, that guy."

"A bit, yes. But the baby did have weird marks on his throat."

"That's brilliant! I guess he jumped on a case like this," says John.

Lestrade nods, a smile playing on his lips.

"That, he did."

"Who? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yup. The one and only," John confirms, unaware of the ambiguity of his words, but soon realizing it as he gets _looks_ off both Lestrade and Sebastian. He blushes. "I mean, consulting detective in the world. You know. He invented the job after all, and since he's even dead now, there really can't be any other..." As he's fumbling with words, he goes for the silly grin, but that doesn't seem to work either, and the _looks_ soon turn to the _stares_. At this point, he pouts.

"Come on, please don't do this tonight, not with the _both_ of you here."

"Look buddy," Seb starts, wrapping an arm around his shoulder like some older, more experienced brother, even though he's probably younger, around Sherlock's age – _no_, what Sherlock's age _would be_. "You can't just blush like a bashful virgin when you make such a blunder about a dead guy. It's just not happening, see? Can't happen."

"It just happened, Seb," John points out in a sigh, tired of the conversation before it's even begun.

"Don't be smart."

"No, why should I? You're treating me like an idiot anyway," he grumbles.

"He's got a point, though," Lestrade remarks, giving him the fatherly look. John feels quite sick of it already.

"No, he hasn't," John retorts firmly. "Can't we continue with the case? I want to know how he solved it."

"You're obsessed."

"Yes I am."

"And he admits it!" Seb cries out in desperation, looking at Lestrade for support. The D.I. just shrugs.

"I've tried this a hundred times already. I know his answers by heart now."

Sebastian shakes his head, sighs, then takes a deep breath. He turns back to John, determined. Greg watches, amused. _It's bound to fail... but fun to see,_ his eyes seem to be saying. John knows. He finds it funny too.

"John," Seb begins gravely, "You can't go on loving a ghost your whole life."

"Why not?

"Because it's not healthy!"

"I'm perfectly healthy. I see women when I feel like it, which isn't too often, I must say, and it doesn't usually turn out very well. But I don't mind. I can take care of myself. It's just physiology. And if I want to be a fetishist, I've got everything I need."

"Oh God I did _not _just hear that."

"There's also the fact that I'd rather not date anyone unless it's what you call love at first sight, because I have this bad habit of screaming Sherlock's name at release, no matter the partner. And really, 'Sherlock' doesn't sound like anything else, so even very loudly–"

"All right, you win, stop it, just stop it! You're crazy, man! Crazy!"

"Have you just noticed?"

For a second, Sebastian freezes, and something flickers in his eyes, something John cannot quite grasp, cannot put into words. Soon however it is gone, and he wonders if he's imagined it all.

"Maybe you could marry a nice girl who's desperately in love with some dead guy, though," Seb continues, ignoring John's the rhetorical question.

Both Lestrade and John stare.

"Who's crazy again?" Greg asks.

"I don't see the point," John simply says. "Don't feel the need for it, at all. If there was something weird and thrilling about her, maybe."

"You mean, if she was Sherlock?"

"Right!" John beams, and that is when his friends realize he's probably drunker than he seems.

Seb turns to the D.I. and inquires:

"So, you actually met John because of that Sherlock guy, right?"

"Hey, can't we finish the Sussex vampire story?" John interrupts.

Seb laughs at the strange title John has already found, but Lestrade completely ignores John and answers Sebastian:

"Yes, indeed. Sherlock just brought him one day and it was quite a surprise, because that guy never brought anyone – and I mean, _anyone_. Except that one time he arrived at the Met with a drunk man he'd found in some gay bar."

At this, John gapes, so Lestrade promptly adds:

"It was the murderer we'd been looking for for ages. He just managed to identify his patterns so well that he found him, and handed him to us on a platter."

"By picking him up in a gay bar? Ha ha! That was some guy!" Seb exclaims.

John takes a sip of his drink pensively, then turns to Lestrade.

"What was the name of the bar again?" he inquires with an innocent smile.

Expectedly, he gets the _stares_.

* * *

><p><em>What you need, what you need, I need too<br>What you are, what you are, I am too  
><em>_'Cause we're all the same under a different name  
>We're all blood, we're all blood, blood brothers<br>We're all blood, we're all blood, blood brothers_

* * *

><p>"Bye, John!"<p>

"Goodbye David," John answers, sending a smile to his colleague. Then he adds for the woman sitting behind the desk: "Goodbye, Rebecca."

She ignores him pointedly, as she now does every day. Then, after a few seconds, when she is done with whatever task she is doing or pretending to be doing, she finally replies, her voice neutral:

"Goodbye, Dr. Watson. See you tomorrow."

David sends John a sympathetic look and goes back to his office. John represses a sigh and turns away to leave. This clinic is perfect because it allows him to work part-time and the salary is good. He feels bad for Rebecca, but he's already explained that the other friend he was seeing the other night – namely,Molly – had a boyfriend and was just a friend. It hadn't been enough. To be fair, it hadn't been the first time that John made a blunder with the receptionist. It was only natural that she got tired of him after a while. But he regrets her past amicability.

On Thursdays, John finishes work just in time for tea. He's taken up the habit of going down to Mrs. Hudson's with cakes from the little bakery he's found thanks to Lestrade's recounting of Sherlock's cases. John knows he is exploiting the D.I.'s guilt to get all of this information, because Greg will never forgive himself for what happened to Sherlock – never forgive himself for that tiny little second when he doubted him, even though it only lasted an instant. Never forgive himself for having let Sherlock (and John) run off that night, telling all policemen to put down their weapons even though he knew Sherlock would never shoot his "hostage", or anyone else for that matter. If he hadn't let them run away, Sherlock might still be alive...

All of this is true, of course, but even John cannot blame the D.I. for anything. So every time the conversation turns to this at the pub, he listens, nods, and always tells Lestrade the same thing: he couldn't have known.

_Mycroft could have._

_I could have._

...are the lingering thoughts that come with the comment, always. But John doesn't utter them.

As he knocks on his landlady's door for the fifth time, John wonders if she could have gone out. She would have left a note, though, of that he is certain.

A terrible sense of dread fills him. What if something happened? What if she accidentally fell and was now lying unconscious on the floor? There might no longer be any CIA agent to manhandle her, but she isn't immune to the more common domestic events that can lead to the most dramatic outcomes.

Distressed, he pushes the door and feels his hearts sink as it opens under his touch.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he calls.

The moment he enters her flat, however, he hears her voice coming from her room. Nonplussed, he walks towards it, and realizes she's only been busy talking with someone on the phone, and probably didn't even hear the doorbell.

"Yes, well, I will try, dear. But even if he's not your brother, he isn't stupid. You should just send it to him. It is true that he is very angry with you. But he will be too interested in it to get rid of it, I'm sure."

John feels rather awkward for having burst in on her like this. He would like very much to hear some more of her conversation, because in all likelihood, she is talking to... But he shouldn't. So he calls out again, playing oblivious.

"Mrs. Hudson! Is anyone in?"

He moves away from her room, towards the kitchen, as if he'd been looking for her. From afar, he can hear her mumble some words on the phone, hang up, and come out of her room.

"John, dear! How long have you been here?"

"I just got here."

"Oh I'm sorry, have you been ringing?"

"Yes. I thought something might have happened, so I came in. Sorry for intruding..."

"No, not at all! And you brought those delicious pastries from that bakery again. John, you have to stop that, or we'll both get fat."

"Ha ha! Who cares?"

"Aren't you the doctor? It isn't good for your health."

"Once a week is fine, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh well, I guess so."

She smiles up at him as she puts the kettle to boil, and they seat at the kitchen table. There is a few seconds of peaceful silence, soon broken by Mrs. Hudson's soft voice:

"You heard me on the phone, didn't you?"

John swallows. Their eyes meet, and he nods.

"I didn't mean to."

"Of course not."

"What did Mycroft want you to put in the flat?"

She blinks, evidently surprised that he's seized the whole situation so fast, even though she was the one to point out he was far from being a fool.

"A notebook, apparently. From Sherlock's school days."

"Oh." _Damn him_. Naturally, she'd been right. John would have shot Mycroft, but kept the notebook. From Sherlock's school days, she said... Even he can feel his eyes twinkle at the mere thought of it.

Mrs. Hudson sighs as she stands to prepare the tea.

"I'm sorry to say that, my boy, but you look like a fangirl who's just been told she might have a chance to get an autograph."

"Nice. I hadn't heard that one so far."

"Isn't it good, though? Perhaps your expressions are changing."

"Or maybe people are just running out of comparisons."

Putting down the tray with the two cups of tea and the pastries on the table, Mrs. Hudson leans in slightly and sends him a grave look.

"Oh please, don't give me the 'stare' too," he bemoans playfully, taking his cup.

"Fine, forget the fangirl issue then. Let's have a talk about Mycroft."

"Let's really not," John refuses firmly. He brings his cup to his lips, decidedly avoiding his landlady's gaze.

"Will you be angry with him forever? You do realize that he is the one who could tell you most about Sherlock."

"Like he did to Moriarty?"

The irritation is already piercing in his voice. He slaps himself mentally for it. Mrs. Hudson has nothing to do with his hatred for Mycroft. And under that thin layer of irritation, John can feel even now the iron loathing, unwavering and glowing like a never-ending curse.

"John. The fangirl look suits you more than the murderer's one," Mrs. Hudson's remarks coolly, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"He let him die."

"Now listen to me. Mycroft Holmes is not a good person. But he would have done anything – _anything_, do you hear me? – to save his little brother's life. He loved Sherlock, and if he could have done something to prevent him from taking his own life, he would have. No matter the cost."

John, frozen on the spot, just stares stupefied at the face he is so used to see graced with a smile. Whenever he conjures up the image of Mrs. Hudson in his mind, he sees her either smiling, or fussing. He usually skips the picture of her hiding her tears in front of Sherlock's grave. But this? Never had he imagined the dear woman to be capable of such an expression. Her look is hardened and her traits finely composed in the coldest countenance. Her eyes are solemn, devoid of the usual light that bestows a cheerful sparkle upon them. The sparks have let way to some bottomless depth, and the severity that she radiates is so imposing John finds himself speechless.

Then the moment is gone and her face regains its usual brightness and gentleness.

"You really should go out and meet new people," she says suddenly, probably trying to change the subject.

"I will. In fact, I am planning on going out by myself tonight to some bar Lestrade told me about, for bachelors."

"Really? That's great! I hope it's not too grim a place."

"Oh no, it's going to be lovely."

He doesn't tell her that the lovely place is in fact a gay bar where Sherlock went to pick up a murderer five years ago.

The bar does not turn out to be as grim as he though at first. It's actually quite nice: the music isn't too loud, the colours aren't too flashy. John finds that he likes it enough to buy himself a drink at the counter and stay for a while. He tries to imagine the scene. Sherlock, coming in here and looking for the killer. Detecting him at some point and finding a casual way to approach him. John has a rather hard time picturing Sherlock hitting on anyone, even for a case. That is probably what happened, though.

"Hello, what can I get for you?"

"A beer, please."

"Tetley?"

"Yes, that's fine."

As he seats at the bar, John takes a look around, agreeably surprised by the warmth of the place. He seems to forget for a moment the whole _gay_ aspect of it.

"Here is your drink, sir," the barman tells him with a wink.

John smiles back sheepishly, feeling a bit bad for leading people on by his mere presence here. As he turns to take another look, his eyes stop on a woman sitting at a table, reading a book. She raises her head, and their eyes meet. She sends him a charming smile, which he answers gracefully. Then, in a very childlike manner, she sticks her tongue at him.

* * *

><p><em>What you need, what you need, I need too<br>What you are, what you are, I am too  
>'Cause we're all the same under a different name<br>We're all blood, we're all blood, blood brothers  
>We're all blood, we're all blood, blood brothers<em>

* * *

><p>You blink in disbelief. Your first reaction is to think that you've gone bonkers, or that they put something into your drink. Then you wonder if that woman over there isn't the crazy one. Now she's reading again, completely ignoring you.<p>

_I'm mad. Or she's mad. What the hell?_

Curiosity killed the cat. Luckily, you never cared for cats, and so you stand and walk up to her.

"Hum. Excuse me."

She looks up at you quite innocently, as if she hadn't been grimacing a second ago. A bit confused, you sit at her table, not bothering to ask if anyone is sitting there, for she is obviously alone. For some reason, the idea that she might be waiting for someone does not even cross your mind. She stares at you, not as if she were embarrassed by your peculiar attitude, but as if she were expecting some kind of explanation.

"Sorry for asking, but I really must know if I'm losing my mind or if... Well. Did you just stick your tongue at me?"

The moment you've said it, you feel like a complete fool. You must have imagined it. What kind of adult sticks their tongue at an absolute stranger in a bar?

"Oh yes. I did."

You blink. That's the second time in the evening. Not the last time, either. But you do not know that yet.

"You did," you repeat dumbly.

"I did. I was just checking."

"Checking what?"

She closes her book and smiles up at you.

"If you were interesting."

You can't help but laugh.

"So you stick your tongue at complete strangers to test their reactions and see if they're _interesting_?"

"Right," she confirms quite seriously, a friendly smile still playing on her lips.

"Right," you echo. "You're crazy."

"I've been told so, yes. What are you doing here?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You. What are you doing here?"

_God, she really is insane_. "Having a drink." _Obviously_, says your tone.

She rolls her eyes. "I meant in a gay bar. You're clearly straight, man."

_Man?_ You blink (third time). "How did you know?"

She gives you a stare, but a different one. "Anyone would know."

"Right..." You think of Pete, and smile for yourself. "Well, I'm straight. So what?"

"You're aware that this is a gay bar, right?"

"Oh yeah, I am. Isn't that good, though? They won't think you've been taken for the night."

She chuckles.

"So... What are you doing here?" she asks again, smirking this time.

"Doing some kind of remembrance trip, I guess."

She arches an eyebrow, and for the first time you notice how pretty she is. In a very weird way. She is actually wearing salmon coloured dungarees that strangely go with her grey eyes and fair hair of a nondescript shade that reminds you of ashes and amber. On second thoughts, you have no idea how she can be pretty, but she is. Quite funny, too.

"A remembrance trip?" she asks doubtfully, her voice laced with sarcasm. Her voice is funny, too. Rather deep for a woman, yet not too low.

"Yup. A friend of mine came here a few years ago."

This time, it is her turn to blink in confusion, not getting the point at all. To be fair, what you said doesn't make much sense out of context.

"He's dead," you add, as if that explained everything.

"Oh."

Perhaps it does.

* * *

><p><em>What you need, what you need, I need too<br>What you are, what you are, _

_I am too_

* * *

><p>"So you're doing some kind of pilgrimage to the places he's gone to?"<p>

"That's right." You nod like an idiot, oblivious to the amusement in her tone. Or perhaps you just don't care. What did they put in that drink?

She smiles knowingly.

"What kind of friend was he?"

"Terrible," you reply, even though you know it's not what she meant. "He shot walls when he was bored and put human heads in the fridge for experiments."

For a moment, she seems to think you're joking, then you can actually see doubt dawn on her, and she frowns.

"What the hell?"

"Crazy guy, I know."

"And you lived together." That amused smile of hers is back. She doesn't seem to think you are in a gay bar for no reason, apparently.

"Flatmate. I'm straight, remember?"

"Right. And so... he died."

You need to take another sip for that one, and even ask for another pint.

"Jumped off a building," you develop. "In front of me, actually. Nice guy, as I said."

She does not seem embarrassed in the least, like most people do when you get to this point in a conversation. Something like pristine sadness flashes in her eyes for a second, then is gone just as soon in a sea of experience. Suddenly, she appears to be much older than you thought.

"How old are you?"

You've blurted it out before even realizing it, but unlike most women, she simply smirms and replies:

"Thirty-eight."

"Ah."

Now you feel stupid, because there really is nothing to answer to that. "I'm forty-two."

"Great. Can we get back to the interesting part of the discussion now?"

Her tone isn't harsh, but rather tenderly mocking. The kind of banter John enjoyed having with... Sherlock.

"What was his name?"

"Sherlock."

"Oh. That sounds familiar for some reason."

She furrows her brow and her nose wrinkles slightly as she tries to remember where she's heard the name. Just because she's cute, you decide to spare her the trouble.

"Sherlock Holmes. Fake detective who turned out not to be fake."

"Right! That's it. I don't really follow the news because it's depressing and I don't really care, but... Sorry, I didn't mean it that way."

She blushes and bits her lips. You can almost hear the thought 'God I'm such an idiot' emanating from her.

"I know. It's fine."

"No, it's not. It's horrible to lose someone. I just don't like the media because all they want is to make a big deal out of it for profit. I find it sickening."

She does look disgusted. You can only concur.

You fall silent for a moment, before she speaks up again.

"So, Sherlock Holmes... Why did he come here in the first place?"

"He was on a case at the time. Some murderer came here every evening and nobody was even aware of it. Well, nobody except him." You smile at the thought, and don't notice her gaze on you.

"So he caught the murderer?"

"Well, he brought him to the Met. So I think he probably flirted with him in some ways... Which is unbelievable, really, because if you'd known the man, you'd be certain he could never be interested in anyone, whatever the gender."

"Not even you?" she inquires, bringing her glass to her lips.

She is incredibly perceptive, isn't she? You smile sadly.

"Not even me. He was my best friend, though. I was always happy with that."

"Were you?"

"Oh yeah," you reply quite honestly. Before Sherlock died, you were just beginning to realize how impossibly in love you were with him. But it wouldn't have mattered. Keeping him as your best friend for the rest of your life would have been fine, and for him to allow you to have such a place in his life... You would have felt content, and wouldn't have risked it for anything.

"I see. So he was crazy, and a prick, but you still stayed with him?"

"The flat was great," you joke. Then more quietly: "And to tell you the truth, the man himself was quite addictive. I've been to war. When I came back, I was completely lost. Without him, and without the thrill he provided me with, I don't know how I would've readjusted to civilian life."

She tilts her head to the side, and for a second you try to imagine her as a child.

"What do you mean?"

That's a rather long story... But you've got the evening after all, and wasn't the place nice? So you tell her everything from day one.

* * *

><p><em>'Cause we're all the same under a different name<br>We're all blood, we're all blood, blood brothers_

* * *

><p>It's your fourth pint and her fifth glass of wine, when you're finally done with your story and have completed it by recounting – quickly – Sherlock's suicide. You are quite drunk by now.<p>

"I see," she finally says, after a pause.

"What do you see?"

"That you're hopelessly in love with him, man."

"Well. He's dead."

"Yes, I had gathered."

"He can't be much of a rival."

For the first time, she looks up at you with surprise in her eyes. You smile.

"You're not actually hitting on me, are you?" she asks.

"In a gay bar? Nah, where did you get that idea?"

But the look you send her is knowingly intimate, and tinged with the playful amusement you use to flirt. _Damn it. What am I doing?_

"Tell me more about you. You haven't said a word," you go on.

"You neither."

"What?!"

"About yourself, I mean."

"I thought that was quite telling."

She nods.

"It is."

"So?"

"Well... Nothing as exciting. I'm a primary school teacher. I have to deal with brats all day long – but to be fair, they're fun to play with." The somewhat sadistic smile on her face is rather disturbing, but you are too engrossed in her sparkling eyes to notice. "I wanted to be a governess in the first place – I spent my childhood reading nineteenth century literature and grew up a bit out of the world. So when I was told that the modern version was baby-sitter, I didn't find it as cool, surprisingly. I did go abroad as an au-pair for three years during my uni years, though."

"Really? That's nice. Where did you go?"

"Amsterdam!"

"Oh. So you can speak Dutch?"

"Yes, a bit."

"You're being modest."

"Yes."

You both break into laughter. She is surprisingly not boring for a school teacher, you muse, fleetingly thinking of Jeanette.

"Ha!" she exclaims, making you jump. "You just compared me to a woman you had."

Your eyes widen and you can't believe how insightful she is.

"Indeed. To your very clear advantage, though – and that's not a lie."

"Thank you."

The silence stretches on a little, but it isn't uncomfortable.

"So... Why are _you_ here?" you finally ask her, just to start the conversation again.

She shrugs.

"The usual reason. To find someone."

"Long-term relationship? One-night stand?"

Her lips curve up and she looks impish with her large eyes and ears and her pointed nose.

"Why? Are you interested?"

"Obviously not."

She looks disappointed; you add precipitately:

"I mean, as you said, we're in a gay bar, so it isn't like I stand any chance anyw–"

"I'm bi."

You freeze. By? By what? Oh. Bi. Bisexual. That's good. That's very good. A silly grin spreads across your face.

"Definitely interested."

She smiles sweetly. "Too bad."

"Too bad?"

The moue she makes is so similar to the one Sherlock made before the Baskerville case to get his cigarettes (before he threw them above his shoulder with disinterest...) that your chest tightens for a moment. But the resemblance is in your mind, not on her face. Soon it fades away, and you are brought back to reality by her voice.

"Yes, too bad. I made the decision to never go out with a man again – not to mention sleep with him – without being married first."

You blink (fourth time).

_"What?"_

* * *

><p><em>We're all blood, we're all blood, <em>

_Blood brothers_

* * *

><p>"You've got to see the whole picture," she explains. "I was dumped by that guy I was ridiculously in love with, and ever since every guy I've ever had was always only interested in sex, and it never worked out for anything else. It's not that I'm getting old and serious and want to build a family. I'm just a bit tired of it, so I go for women instead. I like both, so I don't mind."<p>

"But married?" you insist, disbelief in your voice. _Seriously?_

She smirks.

"Yes."

"No sane person will ever agree to marry you without going out with you first and getting to know you."

"No sane person ever will," she concurs, nodding and looking adorable because she is getting quite drunk too, and cannot seem to nod straightly.

You look at her for a moment – really look at her. Not like Sherlock would've looked at someone of course, observing and deducing their whole lives, because you're incapable of that. But still you look, and try to see who the person in those funny salmon-coloured dungarees is, reading a book in a bar even though she's trying to meet someone, sticking her tongue at the first person whose gaze she meets...

"Marry me," you say.

She actually chokes on her drink, and starts coughing. After she's put her glass down on the table, she looks up at you, and appears to be unsure whether she's heard correctly or not.

"Say that again."

"Marry me."

"Are you actually ordering me?"

"Sorry."

You'll blame it on the drink later. Or on the bloody dungarees, or on the madness of that woman. But for now, you just want to make an impression, and for the first time since Sherlock's death, you feel like it might be worth it. You get on your knees.

"Please marry me... hum..." You stop, flabbergasted. _I don't even know her name. God, I'm proposing to a woman whose name I don't even know_!

Expectedly, the thought only makes it more exciting, and you suddenly feel ridiculously enthused by the situation. Incredibly embarrassed, too. You feel your cheeks heat up as you are forced to ask, there on your knees in front of everyone staring at you in the bar (a new kind of stare is born...): "Hum... What's your name again?"

She laughs and smiles, stunned yet dazzling.

"Mary. Mary Morstan."

* * *

><p><em>We're all blood, <em>

_We're all blood, _

_Blood _

_B__rothers_

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	29. Unitas virtute

**A/N: **This chapter was kindly betaed by BritChick101. Many thanks!

**...**

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"__  
><em>

_**Unitas virtute**__**: **_"Unity is strentgh", __also sometimes translated as__ "United we stand, divided we fall"__

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXVIII: <strong>**_Unitas virtute_**

_Everybody, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>We have fallen down again tonight<br>In this world it's hard to get it right  
>Try and make your heart fit like a glove<br>What it needs is love, love, love_

* * *

><p>You've had very bad hangovers in your life.<p>

But nothing can compare to the hammering headache you wake up with this morning. _Well, that's one hell of a hangover, _you muse drowsily. You can't really remember why you drank in the first place, because you don't recall having gone out with Mike or Lestrade or...

Your eyes widen excessively and you sit up with a gasp. Memories from the previous night hit you like a slap in the face, and suddenly you are very much awake.

_Oh God. I proposed to a complete stranger._

You fall back on your mattress with a groan, definitely not ready to face the day. What in the world got into you? Sure, she was pretty and funny and... _But I don't know her!_ You bury your face into the pillow, trying to chase away the images that flash in front of your eyes.

"Please marry me... hum... What's your name again?"

"Mary. Mary Morstan."

"Right. Mary, please marry me."

You can still hear her laugh now, as clear as a bell. Not a chuckle or a giggle, but a real laugh, blunt and artless.

"You want to marry me, John? But see, it can't work. You don't have a ring. You can't propose without a ring!"

They must have been quite drunk to hold such a conversation in all seriousness.

"A ring... of course! Well... What can we do?"

She smirked and shrugged. What you said next seemed perfectly logical to you then.

"I know! I'll just come back tomorrow night with a ring! Is that all right with you?"

She smiled crookedly, and two dimples had appeared under her eyes.

"All right. I'll be waiting for you, so don't stand me up."

_Damn the dimples! And damn the stupid dungarees!_ you curse as you ravage your bed, which really is unfair, because the poor pillow hasn't done anything wrong. Another desperate growl escapes your lips. _What am I going to do?_

Because that's the question, isn't it? You can't possibly marry her. You've just met her and you still sleep with a dead man's shirt, for God's sake!

Perhaps you should just find a ring. _Right_. _And marry a lesbian. Great idea, John._

You roll on the side and sigh, playing with Sherlock's shirt absent-mindedly. Dark red one. _She's bi, though, that's what she said. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad._ You pout at one of the buttons, and only then do you realize what you're doing. _God, what am I saying?! _Thinking of marrying someone while playing with somebody else's shirt doesn't feel right, even if now you're quite certain that you've lost it completely already.

_I'm never drinking again_.

* * *

><p><em>Everybody, everybody wants to love<br>Everybody, everybody wants to be loved  
>Love, oh<br>Oh, oh_

_Everybody, everybody wants to love  
>Everybody, everybody wants to be loved<br>Love, oh  
>Oh, oh<em>

* * *

><p>"Good morning Mrs. Hudson! Sorry to bother you so early, but I was wondering, do you happen to know a place I could buy a not too expensive ring?"<p>

Mrs. Hudson blinks at you and checks her clock. _Damn. 10.30. It's not even early anymore._

"A ring? For you? So you'd need something for men?"

You stare dumbly for a second before you have to repress hitting your head against a wall. _Am I really supposed to get _two _rings? _

"And one for a woman, too. It has to be cheap, very cheap," you add precipitately, panic filling your chest again.

The good landlady arches an eyebrow and sends you an inquisitive look that makes a shiver run down your spine. Now that you know Mrs. Hudson can be scary, you are not too inclined to bring down her wrath.

"Would you like to come in for some tea?" she offers, and you become aware that you just won't have the heart to tell her what has happened. Somehow, you are quite convinced that she wouldn't approve of your attitude last night. "_Proposing to a young lady when you're drunk! How irresponsible have you become?_"

No, you definitely can't tell her.

"I'm sorry, but I'm in a bit of a rush. For the ring..."

"Well, if you're looking for something cheap, why not Accessorize?" she suggests teasingly, a hint of banter in her voice. "But John? Please don't do anything crazy."

You laugh nervously, scratching your head and sending her the most innocent smile you can manage.

"Of course not! See you later, then."

And then you're off, running away more than anything, and still having absolutely no clue as to what should be done in such a situation.

* * *

><p><em>Happy is the heart that still feels pain<br>Darkness strays and light will come again  
>Swing open up your chest and let it in<br>Just let the love, love, love begin_

* * *

><p>"Hello, Greg?"<p>

Lestrade seems surprised to hear your voice. It's true you don't usually call in the morning – in fact, you don't usually call at all. You prefer to text.

"John? Is anything wrong?"

"No, not really, it's just... Well, I'm not sure, but..."

"Sorry mate, I'm a bit busy right now. Can I call you later?"

"Sure! Of course! Sorry to have bothered you."

He hangs up before you can add anything. _So much for the 'Call me if you have any problems'_, you muse gloomily.

So what, now? You can't possibly ask Harry for advice. And you're definitely not close enough to Molly to feel at ease discussing such a thing with her. Seriously, why did the D.I. have to be busy now of all times? You let out a disgruntled sigh. Then it suddenly crosses your mind. _Chris_. She'll know what to do, surely. Or at least, she won't judge you too severely... or so you hope. There's no time to be wavering in any case, so you just dial her number before you can think too much about it.

"Hello, Chris? It's John. Is now a good time? I think I've put myself in a terrible situation and I really need to talk to_–_"

"Hey, John!"

You blink in puzzlement.

"Seb?"

"Yup, it's me!"

"Why are you answering Chris's phone?"

A shiver runs down your spine as you start imagining the worst.

"God, don't tell me you're actually_–_"

"Is it John?" _Harry's voice. So she's with them. Good._

Then you realize it might not be so good after all. _Damn, she's going to sulk because I didn't call her first_. But was it his fault that he always felt closer to his sister's _partners_ than to Harry herself?

"It's John," Seb confirms. "So tell me, mate, what's wrong?"

"I proposed."

"What?! That's so cool! Wait... to whom?"

"That's the problem!" you groan, massaging your temple in an attempt to chase away the impending headache.

"Okay. Where are you?"

"Not far from Baker Street."

"All right. Go back to the flat. I'll be right there."

"What?! No, wait, I_–_"

But he has already hung up. You curse under your breath. Sebastian certainly isn't the best person to ask for advice in that matter, considering his hectic love and sex life with women around the world – a different one each week, if you recall correctly. You consider calling Chris back, but she's probably too busy calming Harry down right now. With a sigh, you turn and head back to the flat.

* * *

><p><em>Everybody, everybody wants to love<br>Everybody, everybody wants to be loved  
>Love, oh<br>Oh, oh  
>Everybody, everybody wants to love<br>Everybody, everybody wants to be loved  
>Love, oh<br>Oh, oh_

* * *

><p>"Ha ha ha! God, you're mad, man, completely mad!" Seb roars for the twelfth time.<p>

"Yes, thank you for the input," you grumble back sourly.

"Aw, come on, don't make that face!"

"I'm going to get married to a complete stranger, Seb!" you suddenly explode. "Why shouldn't I be grumpy, huh?"

He gapes, disbelieving.

"You're going to marry her? You've got to be kidding me!"

"Well, I'm the one who proposed to her in the first place," you mumble sullenly, falling back on the couch. You're beginning to be quite depressed over the whole thing.

"What the... Get a grip, for Christ's sake! You were both drunk, it was an unfortunate sentence that escaped your lips, and_–_"

"Twice."

"Twice?"

"It escaped my lips twice."

"...Right. Look, it doesn't matter! I'm sure she wasn't even serious about it. You met in a gay bar, y'know? She was never looking for a bloke to begin with! Really, I'm telling you, she was just joking around trying to get rid of you."

"I wasn't bothering her!" you protest. "She's the one who stuck her tongue at me first!"

Sebastian nods.

"Exactly. Which is only further proof that she's a complete wacko. Listen, John, you're not seriously considering marrying that woman, are you?"

_Am I?_ you wonder. Her twinkling eyes and enticing smirk flash before your eyes, and you waver. But her image is soon replaced with that of an empty bed and a shirt, and you shake your head.

"I can't do that to her."

"To _her_? You mean to you!" He observes you suspiciously for a few seconds, then adds with a frown: "Don't tell me you've seriously fallen for her."

"No! Well, I don't know... That's not the issue here!"

"Sure it is."

You keep shaking your head desperately.

"It really isn't. This isn't just dating, you see. I have _proposed_ to her."

"Why?"

You freeze, and blink. God, that woman has the power to make you blink like an idiot even when she's not around.

"Why?"

Seb takes a sip of coffee and nods. "Yes. Why did you propose to her?"

"She said she wouldn't date a man unless–"

"So you want to date her."

"I don't know if I can date anyone. Wouldn't it be unfair?"

The dark-haired man smiles, and for the first time you realize how similar his hair is to Sherlock's – especially since he's let it grow. A flash of pain traverses your gaze, and he catches it. Moving closer to you, he asks in a low voice:

"John. Why would it be unfair?"

"I love Sherlock," you murmur before you can think about it, and you feel like Sebastian's gaze is pinning you on the spot. You just watch as he comes closer, unable to shake off the image of another face, another crooked smile, another...

"But she knows that. Are you sure you're not saying it would be unfair for _him_?"

This snaps you out of your daydream.

"What? No! He's dead, I'm quite sure it doesn't matter to him now whom I date or not."

"Then I don't see the problem," Seb shrugs as he leans back into the armchair. He is wearing a purple shirt today. "Um, John? You're staring, you know."

You avert your gaze automatically, feeling stupid.

"Sorry."

He smirks. "That's quite fine. And John?"

"Mm?"

"Are you sure you're going for the right gender?"

You tilt your head to the side perplexedly and arch an eyebrow.

"I've tried men. Didn't work."

"You tried one man."

"What are you saying?"

He grins up at you boyishly. "That I'm free, and interested."

"You're _what?!" _

When you realize you've been recoiling unwittingly, you jump to your feet and start pacing to regain some countenance.

"Stop joking around."

"I'm not joking, though!" He leans back to look at you upside-down, pouting. "And don't give me the bashful virgin attitude, I'm not going to attack you or anything. Plus, I have a very cute girlfriend in France right now."

You let out a sigh, not sure whether it is one of relief, or of exasperation at the idiot's fickleness.

"I feel bad for her."

"What?! That's not fair, mate."

"Yes, I'm a very unfair person."

You smirk, and he smirks back. Feeling a bit uneasy at the closeness, you look away.

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I'll go to the bar tonight," you say determinedly. Seb goggles. "And apologize to her," you add with a small smile. "I owe her that, at least."

"You don't owe her anything, really," he remarks.

"She said she'd be waiting. I've already been foolish enough, I don't want to be a jerk to boot."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Seb offers, and you can't repress a giggle.

"So you can chat her up? No, thank you. But I'm glad you came – I mean, you didn't help at all, but still I could talk to someone."

"Oh great, I'm so happy I could be useful," he mumbles in mock sulking.

"No, but really, thanks," you insist as you walk him back to the door. "I owe you one!"

He smiles.

"Oh no, John. _I _owe _you_."

Something about his eyes makes you quiver, and as you close the door, you wonder what has got into you.

* * *

><p><em>Oh, everybody knows the love<br>Everybody holds the love  
>Everyboy falls for love<em>

_Everybody feels the love  
>Everybody steals for love<br>Everybody heals with love  
>Oh, oh, oh, oh<em>

* * *

><p>You spend the afternoon writing about the case of the Sussex vampire, which you did manage to get out of Lestrade eventually.<p>

You're presently considering writing the whole story from the D.I.'s point of view, as his recounting was quite funny and readers would certainly appreciate the style. Then you remember you're not actually posting this on the web anymore, and that you haven't updated your blog in ages. You check the date on the computer screen.

It's been exactly one year, four months and seventeen days. You're not sure why, but you feel like checking it all of a sudden, so you go online. Before you know it, though, you type 'wedding ring' into google, instead of going to your blog. You freeze upon realizing what you're doing.

_What. The. Hell. Is wrong with me?!_

Groaning, you close your laptop without bothering to turn it off, cursing stupid wedding rings, stupid proposals and stupid dungarees...

* * *

><p><em>Just let the love, love, love begin<em>

* * *

><p>"A Bloody Mary, please."<p>

"Ho ho, not in a good mood, are we?"

Mary sat up on a stool with a sigh.

"Not yet," she simply replied.

"Have you come to meet that guy again?" a man sitting next to her at the bar inquired with a wide grin. "I was there when he got on his knees, y'know."

She glared. "Good for you."

The barman laughed as he served her drink. "Come on, Mary, don't snap at the other customers. _They _didn't do anything."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she exclaimed.

"Nothing, nothing, dearie," he muttered, stepping back sheepishly.

Mary let her head fall onto the bar dramatically.

"What was his name again?" her neighbour asked with curiosity.

"John. John Watson," Mary mumbled back.

"Hi Jerry! Hello, love!" someone suddenly cried out behind her, making her jump and hugging her out of the blue. "I have missed you sooo much!"

"Get off, Cathy," Mary groaned, trying to shrug her friend off.

The young woman stood back with a frown, and pushed her red hair back from her face to show that she was scowling. Mary ignored her regally and kept drinking with a pensive look. Catherine was quite offended to be thus discarded and sent an inquisitive gaze at Jerry, the barman. He rolled his eyes and raised his hands to express his powerlessness. _She's in a foul mood, what can I do?_

"So tell me, darling... What's wrong?"

"A guy proposed to me yesterday."

"Great, that's... What?"

"A guy propo_–_"

"Wait, are you serious?"

"Quite."

Catherine stared, dumbfounded. She glanced at Jerry, who shrugged. "That's true."

"A guy flirted with you."

"Mm. Kind of."

"You said you were bi."

"Yup."

"And you told him you wouldn't sleep with him unless he married you."

At this, Mary's head shot up and she protested:

"I wasn't _that_ blunt!'

"But basically..."

She sighed pitifully and let her head fall back onto her arms, dishevelling her hair even more.

"Basically, yes..." she whimpered. Cathy burst out laughing.

"God, Mary, you're such an idiot!"

"I know..." she moaned lamentably.

"Seriously, you're so difficult. You should have just gone with him for the night, and_–_"

"I told you I was looking for a serious relationship, Cathy."

Catherine batted her eyelids and grinned broadly. She took Mary's hand and offered excitedly:

"Say, love, won't you give me another chance?"

"No way," Mary deadpanned. "Another one!" she asked Jerry, waving her empty glass.

"Already? You're gonna get drunk before he even gets here, girl!"

"Like he'd come back," Catherine scoffed. Mary glared.

"He will."

"Oh yeah? And what makes you say that? He's fallen for your pretty face, huh?"

Mary shook her head. "No. He's just a good guy."

Cathy blinked, and stared. The annoying man sitting next to them burst out laughing, and confirmed:

"That, he is! Funny bloke, huh? Our little Mary was doing her show there sticking her tongue out and all, and there he goes at her table to ask her if she's been grimacing at him or not! Ha ha ha!"

"He's a wacko..." Cathy commented. Then to Mary, with a charming smile: "Come on, dear, forget him already. He won't come. Let's get back together?"

Mary snorted. "For what? One night? One_ hour_?"

"Oh, don't be harsh! I'm sure we could last at least a week," Cathy cooed, clinging on to her.

"I need a smoke," Mary suddenly said, standing. Cathy let her go and sat back, watching her friend.

"You've got to stop waiting for Prince Charming, Mary. He won't come."

Mary stopped in her tracks, turned, and gave a sad smile to her ex. "He will. And he'll apologize."

"Apologize about what?!" Cathy called out as Mary walked away. This time, she did not turn back. _About not marrying me_, she answered in her mind, surprised at how sad the thought made her.

Oh well. Nothing new under the sun.

Inside the bar, Cathy just exchanged a nonplussed look with Jerry.

"God, she's gotta chill out! What's got into her?"

As she lit her cigarette, Mary was having precisely the same thought. _What's got into me? I shouldn't have kept my hopes up. Maybe he won't come. Maybe..._

She heard footsteps on her right, and turned. Her eyes widened as they met John's.

* * *

><p><em>Everybody, everybody wants to love<br>Everybody, everybody wants to be loved  
>Love, oh<br>Just let the love, love, love begin_

* * *

><p>You're walking up to the bar, only a few meters away, when she comes out. You'd thought she would come early. She looks different under the sunlight – her hair fairer, her body thinner... You would never have guessed that she smoked, either. She seems stressed out, obviously upset about something.<p>

Suddenly she turns to you, and you realize you've kept walking towards her unconsciously, even though you only intended to watch for a while. Your gaze locks with hers, and you can read there the amazement, the hope, the fear. And always, that twinkle of amusement that never seems to leave her clear pupils.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," you echo dumbly. Then, because that really didn't sound stupid enough: "You're blond."

Expectedly, she stares at the comment. Then breaks into laughter.

"What did you think I was? A brunette?"

"No, I just thought your hair was more..." _Ashes and ambers..._ "...greyish?"

She blinks. "Greyish? Oh, you sure know how to talk to women, John."

_Idiot! _you berate yourself mentally. "No, that's not_–_"

"I'm sure."

She smirks, and you feel something dangerously melt in you. You shift on your feet nervously.

"So, have you been here for long?"

"Nah, only a couple of hours," she replies mischievously, and you can't help but return her smile. She's wearing a skirt, you notice. A green one, with a creamy turtle-neck sweater. She's gone out without a coat, even though it's November already. Her hair is down, slightly tangled. She was interesting enough yesterday, why must she be just your type today?

You take a deep breath, and before you can think too much about it, you blurt out:

"I'm sorry."

* * *

><p><em>Everybody, everybody wants to love<br>Everybody, everybody wants to be loved  
>Love, oh<br>Just let the love, love, love begin_

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry," John said.<p>

Mary felt the air catch in her throat, but kept her face in check. _Here we go_, she thought.

She should have gone out earlier. One cigarette definitely wasn't enough for this.

_I'm sorry I can't marry you. We were both drunk, I didn't know what I was saying... You understand, right?_

Her hand that wasn't holding the cigarette tensed and tightened discreetly into a fist.

_Enough_, she told herself off. Forcing herself to look John in the eye, she held up is gaze, making sure hers was unwavering.

* * *

><p><em>Everybody, everybody wants to lov<br>Everybody, everybody wants to be loved  
>Love, oh<br>Oh, oh_

* * *

><p>The moment she fixes those damn grey pupils on you – how can they be grey and so bright all at once?! – you know you're doomed.<p>

"I'm sorry I couldn't find a ring today," you develop. _What? That's not what I wanted to say! Idiot, idiot!_

Her eyes widen excessively, and you wonder if she didn't almost drop her cigarette just now.

"Say that again."

"...I'm sorry I couldn't find a ring today?"

She gapes for a second, before asking:

"Are you serious?"

Her tone definitely is. Disbelieving, too. This time, your smile is sincere – a bit tentative, but really honest.

"I guess I am?"

You're quite aware your silly grin doesn't square with the apologetic look still lingering in your eyes; right now, though, you couldn't care less. Something flickers in Mary's eyes. You can't quite put the words on it, but you like the shimmering glow it gives to her irises. Then doubt creeps up into your mind.

"Are _you_ serious?" you ask, suddenly feeling rather cold. But her grin breaks the ice.

"I guess I am."

* * *

><p><em>Everybody, everybody wants to love<br>Everybody, everybody wants to be loved  
>Love, oh<br>Oh, oh_

* * *

><p>Mary couldn't quite believe her ears. <em>Am I really doing this?<em> But she was, and she was enjoying it a hell of a lot too.

Furrowing her brow, she wrinkled her nose comically and waved her cigarette in front of John's eyes.

"I smoke," she said.

"I can see that," he retorted in playful banter. She mirrored his smirk unwittingly.

"I move a lot at night, and sometimes I kick my partners out of bed."

"That's... fine. Why are you telling me that?"

"We're going to be married, we might as well know the worst about each other."

John stared at her in shock.

* * *

><p><em>Everybody, everybody wants to love<br>Everybody, everybody wants to be loved  
>Love, oh<br>Oh, oh_

* * *

><p><em>Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.<em>

You feel yourself pale considerably, and a string of pain quivers in your chest, making you shiver. For some stupid reason, like everything that reminds you of Sherlock, everything that conjures up his presence, it makes you feel like crying and laughing all at once. You go for the latter.

"I have a very large bed. It should be all right."

Mary smiles up at you amusedly, and you wonder why you ever thought you'd be worse off with 'crazy' than with 'dangerous.'

* * *

><p><em><em>Everybody, <em>_

__Everybody wants to love  
>Everybody, <em>_

__Everybody wants to be loved  
>Love<em>_

_Oh  
>Oh,<em>

__Oh...__

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	30. Into vinceres

**A/N: ****The fairy tale that appears at the end of this chapter is ****_The Magpie's Nest_****, as recounted by Joseph Jacobs.  
>I also wanted to notify you guys that I am entering boarding school on September 3, and that I will be very busy with my studies. Serious health problems also prevent me from being very efficient and quick when I write, so my updates probably won't be as frequent from now on. I do intend to post one chapter every week, but I cannot promise anything: I'll try. In any case, I will never drop this story, and will do my best to keep the updates as frequent and regular as possible; so please trust me :) More than ever, reviewers are loved! Hope you enjoy this Sherlock centric chapter :D<br>**

**Edit: **This Chapter was kindly betaed by BritChick101. All my thanks!**  
><strong>

**...**

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_**_  
><em>

_**Into vinceres:**__ "It is yourself you must defeat"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXIX: Into vinceres<strong>

_Die alone, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I woke up this morning with a funny taste in my head.<br>Spackled some butter over my whole grain bread.  
>Something tastes different, maybe it's my tongue.<br>Something tastes different, suddenly I'm not so young._

* * *

><p><em>December 12, 2013 - Enniscorthy<em>

A dog was running on the patio, yapping and barking so the sun would go. So the sun went at last and all lights but one died, remembrance of things past. One glimmer kept shining, that on the dog's collar, reflecting the moon's rays before he jumped and dashed to the nearest cellar.

Shrouded in darkness, Sherlock Holmes followed.

He too was wearing a name tag, so he would not forget what others had called him once in another life. _Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective – the only one in the world._ The only one, walking past the shadows enveloping the street, and joining the pup in his homely den, which smelt of patches and of cellophane. In the hearth a fire was burning.

On the rug before it lay the dog, now panting, looking up at the man with familiar pupils. Were they blue? Were they grey? Or even green, perhaps? The man could never tell. The dog would never say.

Sherlock sat in a chair and extended his hand, so the pup would come up and lick it faithfully. Up the pup did come, but the hand he bit, drawing blood and a cry from his tall master's lips.

The dog puled and the man kicked it off, with rage in his eyes and pain in his heart.

Something did not feel right, Sherlock thought. He would never kick John.

_John_.

Who?

Up to the pup went the man, and he kicked him again. And again. And again. The dog was wailing now, and he began to run, far and farther away, far into the darkness of the street and the engulfing shadows. Sherlock ran after him.

Howling with pain the dog kept fleeing, until suddenly all became quiet. Sherlock froze in the night. The cold silence dampened his ardour and he stepped carefully to the small, still form lying on the pavement. It was the headless carcass of the dog.

Sherlock turned hastily just in time to receive in his hands a bloody, abhorrent ball sent by the dark alone. Someone's scream ripped the dream and its shreds were scattered like the detective's tears as he dropped Watson's head and let it roll on the asphalt. The cry took the shape of a name.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock woke up with a gasp. His jolt pressed him further into the lips of the man kissing him. The man kissing him... Sherlock's eyes widened in horror and a moment later Sebastian Moran found the canon of a gun pressed to his left temple.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sherlock growled dangerously.

Seb blinked.

"You were having a nightmare, and you just seemed so lonely and so desperate... You cried out his name again."

"What are you talking about? Get off me. _Now_."

"Fine, fine, relax! It was just a kiss, after all. Was I any good?"

"No," Sherlock deadpanned.

Moran pouted.

"That's not nice."

"Who goes around kissing people in their sleep?" Sherlock snapped back.

Sebastian simply shrugged and went to the fridge to get a beer.

"Jim did," he informed.

Sherlock snorted.

"Is that it, then? You're trying to mirror your master?"

Sebastian's mouth curved into the most crooked of smiles.

"What are you saying, Sherlock? You're my 'master', now."

Sherlock's gaze turned to ice and his face was smoothed under a sudden wave of indifference.

"Do not ever touch me again."

* * *

><p><em>I'm just a stranger, even to myself.<br>A re-arranger of the proverbial bookshelf.  
>Don't be a fool girl, tell him you love him.<br>Don't be a fool girl, you're not above him._

* * *

><p><em>December 17, 2013 - Dublin<em>

The pastas weren't as good as Angelo's, Sherlock thought as he tasted a bite of his dish reluctantly. The mental remark sent a jolt of pain through his chest, and since he couldn't decipher why, he became annoyed.

"Is something wrong?" asked the woman sitting across from him – a lovely ginger head, almost as well-dressed as the Woman. But Sherlock could not put her under the same category as Irene Adler. This one here was in the file 'I.O.U.', on the island 'Urgent matter' in his mind archipelago.

"Not at all," he replied smoothly with a charming smile. "I was just thinking this isn't the best Italian restaurant I've been too."

The woman wrinkled her nose slightly, and gave an aristocratic pout.

"It is the best in town," she said.

"I'm sure," Sherlock replied, his lips curving so clearly perfunctorily his comment was all the more insulting.

"They have very good apple pie for dessert," she informed off-handedly.

"Are those poisoned as well?" he inquired, leaving the pastas and trying the wine instead. It was insipid, and he wondered if perhaps something was wrong with his mouth, rather than with the food.

"Poisoned? No, I've told you: I do not fling that way."

They exchanged a knowing look, before she went on.

"But some people do, you know."

"I had gathered as much, yes," he retorted, his tone laced with sarcasm. She smirked.

"There is someone, someone trying to set everyone against you... Someone who considers you to be a threat."

"And do you think I am?"

She shrugged non-concomitantly.

"I don't like to be bothered with such stories. But I guess I do get their point. They don't trust you, you see. You've been helping some, but you still used to be a detective, and you have a brother in the British government... You come from the other side. Surely you must understand how suspicious you appear to most of them. You must admit it's quite fishy."

"And not to you?" Sherlock insisted graciously.

She grinned.

"I like fishy."

Sherlock understood what she meant when he found himself face to face with two assassins later in the evening. They were idiots, though, and as Moran shot one, the other was distracted and Sherlock easily put a bullet in his head. He'd found that it was by far the best way to off someone: one did not have to see the gaze in their victim's eyes.

"You're too soft," Sebastian commented teasingly once he'd joined him. "But to be fair, Jim never got _his_ hands dirty," he added with a mocking smirk.

Sherlock looked at him coldly.

"Getting my hands dirty means less people involved. Less traitors. Less risks to be shot in the back," he finished pointedly. Moran gave him an innocent smile.

"What about John?"

"What about him?" Sherlock echoed, his tone utterly indifferent, as if the subject itself was boring him to death.

"Are you going to be able to touch him with those hands?" Moran inquired slyly.

Sherlock did not even take the trouble to stare back at his henchman, as he replied unconcernedly:

"Why should I ever want to touch him again?"

* * *

><p><em>I never thought I could love anyone but myself.<br>Now I know I can't love anyone _

_But you  
>You make me think that maybe I won't die alone.<br>Maybe I won't die alone._

* * *

><p><em>December 19, 2013 - Edinburgh<em>

"Kazimir! Such a pleasure to see you again!" Eliska exclaimed as he sat across from her at the table.

"Ms. Šárka," he greeted back, his smile enthralling.

She smirked, and lay back into her chair again, pushing the restaurant's menu towards Sherlock.

"No, thank you," he declined regally. "I shall only have wine."

"Oh? Trouble in paradise?" she joked pleasantly.

"Oh no, not at all! Quite the contrary, in fact."

She arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Really?"

Sherlock's lips curved up mordantly.

"Were you expecting to hear there were any?"

She pouted.

"No, no... I had just heard–"

"One should be wary of rumours, Ms. Šárka," he interrupted in a cavalier fashion. "So how are things going?"

"Fine, quite fine; thank you. I am very glad indeed to see you today. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"There is," Sherlock confirmed with a winsome smile. Eliska shivered.

"And?"

"Someone has been trying to discredit me among those who owe me. I've had some very bothersome cleaning to do, and it would be great if you could provide some information..."

"As to who is behind all this?"

He nodded.

"I need names. From China, especially."

She smiled thinly. "I see. So you already have an idea."

"Of course. This must be done before tomorrow."

"You will have everything before midnight, if you let me go around ten," she replied obligingly.

Sherlock answered her smile.

"You are perfect."

"Perfect to hold the role of the Evil Queen," he told Moran a few hours later, once he'd left the restaurant. Sebastian looked at him in the car mirror, and chuckled.

"Did you get the names for China, though?"

"Will have them tonight."

"Good."

"Seb?"

"Hum?"

"That woman... Was she your female version to Moriarty?"

Sebastian blinked, dumbfounded by the question. Then he burst out laughing, and Sherlock had to scowl so he would focus on the road again.

"Ha ha, sorry mate, that was just so random, and out of the blue! You're not quite right, though. I thought you would have noticed by now. The symmetry."

"Don't be stupid. Of course I have."

"Then do _you_ have a female version of John Watson?"

The image of Molly Hooper flashed before Sherlock's eyes, but he remained quiet.

"See? Nah, she's nothing like that. In fact, she's nothing: she was never anything to him."

"I see. Well, that explains the hatred," Sherlock commented casually. Moran grinned.

"Precisely. She was rather Jim's Irene Adler: a woman quite desperate to make an impression. But I guess she wasn't as talented... Or maybe Jim wasn't as easily impressionable as you are," he added sweetly, his taunting eyes sparkling as he enjoyed his own little cutting remark.

But Sherlock smirked back, his gaze even more fiery and self-imbued, the confidence blazing in his grey pupils.

"Then I really must have had something special."

Seb laughed, and nodded, recognizing he'd been beaten.

"But anyway, you probably knew all that already, didn't you? Isn't that why you contacted _your_ Woman again in the first place?"

"Maybe," Sherlock answered, elusive.

Speaking of which... He took out his phone and typed a text.

_**I will be in Shanghai before the end of the week. I expect you to have everything I have required.**_

It hadn't been five minutes since he'd pressed the _Send_ button when his phone vibrated, indicating an answer.

_**I am delighted. By the way, have you heard of John's wedding?**_

Sherlock's face remained completely blank as he read the message. His hand did not quiver, and nothing flashed in his gaze. He pocketed the phone again. A few minutes later, however, it vibrated a second time. He picked it, and read the new message.

_**Would you like to have dinner?**_

* * *

><p><em>Kiss the boys as they walk by, call me their baby.<br>__But little do they know, I'm just a maybe.  
>Maybe my baby will be the one to leave me sore.<br>Maybe my baby will settle the score._

* * *

><p><em>December 22, 2013 <em>

Water was pouring on the moor. In the distance a beast was howling to death – a hound, perhaps.

Sherlock was walking, only draped in a sheet, white as a ghost roaming the barren land; a luminescent phantom in the dark. There were shrubs here and there, taking fantastic heights in the silver glow of the rain pierced by the moonlight.

Along a road that never seemed to end, Sherlock was struggling under the cloudburst, always shivering more with each step in the mud of the path. He was calling no one, but a name hovered on his lips as he went on, and on, and on, down the road as if he knew it led to the person he sought.

He did not know.

And the road never ended, and the rain never stopped – soon he was drowning in the downpour swallowing him. He fell down the path and the landscape was upended. Engulfed by the water no longer falling down the sky, he dived in a sea of clouds and shadows, the water penetrating his every pore, burning his eyes and deafening him. He screamed. He screamed the only thing he could think of, the only possible word in a world of murk and hollowness.

_John!_

But the word died in his throat as the water surrounding him silenced his cry, flooded his lungs and ripped the last bubbles of air out of him. _Where are you..?_

The water embraced him tightly, catching him in a vice-like grip, entering him, merging with him in such a way that Sherlock no longer knew who was the water and who he was – no longer knew whether they were two separate entities, or one.

_I was always here_, the voice resounded. His voice. John's. _I will always be here. With you. Within you..._

Sherlock let out a last desperate cry before darkness fell over him, and he felt himself being stifled to death by the desired flow and the familiar voice.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

He woke up abruptly, choking, coughing, gasping for air, and grabbed the first thing his hand came in contact with: an arm.

"Sir! Are you all right?" he heard a feminine voice ask in the distance.

_Not the right voice_, he thought automatically, still confused and hyperventilating.

"Get him water!" another voice next to him ordered. _Definitely not the right one..._ Then Sherlock suddenly seemed to come to his senses, and he realized just whose arm he was holding. He let it go and took his hand away with disgust, horror flashing across his face.

"Hey, mate, are you all right?" Sebastian inquired worriedly.

"Don't... You..."

"Here, sir. Is everything all right?" the air plane hostess inquired. Sherlock nodded stiffly.

"Thank you," Moran answered in his stance. "He just has very bad nightmares sometimes."

Sherlock glared at him, but was only met by a honeyed smile. Sebastian leant in closer and whispered in his ear:

"You didn't cry out his name, this time. What happened?"

A shiver of rage ran down Sherlock's spine, and his hand mechanically snapped up to Sebastian's throat, squeezing threateningly. He looked him in the eye.

"Enough of your theatrics, Seb. Do not make me lose patience with you."

He let him go and this time it was Moran's turn to cough and gasp for air. Sherlock turned back to the window, and fixed his gaze on the pitch black sky. Behind him, he missed Sebastian's mouth curving into a sardonic grin.

* * *

><p><em>I never thought I could love anyone but myself.<br>Now I know I can't love anyone _

_But you  
>You make me think that maybe I won't die alone.<br>Maybe I won't die alone._

* * *

><p><em>December 23, 2013 – Shanghai <em>

"So you want me to keep an eye on Eliska Šárka?"

"That's what I said, yes," Sherlock snapped back, irritated because Sebastian always acted like an idiot and made him repeat each and every order.

"But that means I won't be able to stay with you!" Moran whined.

Sherlock stared.

"Fine, fine," Seb amended, raising his hands in surrender. "Your wishes are my commands."

"Don't try to be funny. You just end up sounding even more foolish."

Sebastian grumbled something about mad geniuses and their bad tempers, but did not press the matter any further.

"Here is your plane ticket."

"Whaaat? So soon? Did you make me come all the way here to shoot just one man? You're sending me away already?"

"I am sending you away for two days, Seb. Stop complaining and just go."

Sebastian pouted sulkily, but obeyed. Once he was gone from the room, Sherlock took out a letter from his jacket's inner pocket, and unsealed it. More poems from Wiggins.

His eyes scanned the encrypted news, but his features betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Somewhere farther away from his mind palace – no, archipelago – Sherlock could hear a storm brewing, and the sea getting agitated. But the tempest had no name, and did not frighten him.

John Watson had just got married to a certain Mary Morstan, a woman he'd met only two weeks prior to his wedding.

Shinwell Johnson was currently dating Molly Hooper, and had even moved in with her. He'd told Wiggins that he hadn't said a word about his link to Sherlock to her.

Mycroft was getting more and more worried and suspicious, and was starting to seriously believe that Sherlock might never come back when this was over.

When this is over, Sherlock mused as he put the letter down on a plate and set fire to it with his lighter. It wouldn't be too long, now; a little more than a year, perhaps. Soon he would have gathered all the necessary information and evidence to expose each and every I.O.U. member on the surface of the earth – or to manipulate them, which was probably more what Mycroft had in mind, considering his character.

Yes, he thought as his eyes burnt from fixing their gaze on the flame too long. It was easy enough, making the criminals mistrust each other, breaking the bonds... Sherlock had become quite talented at this task.

A year or two, perhaps...

...and then, what would he do?

* * *

><p><em>What have I become?<br>Something soft and really quite dumb.  
>Because I've fallen, oh, 'cause I've fall-fallen, oh 'cause I've fall-fall-fallen<br>So far away from the place where I started from._

* * *

><p><em>December 25, 2013<em>

"Goodbye, John."

The air whistled in his ears as he felt his body fall, and fall, and fall... Jumping hadn't been easy, but falling came naturally. You didn't have to do anything, you could just let go, let go of everything...

"SHERLOCK!"

Well, that was bothersome. _His voice_. But it wasn't so bad, after all: getting to hear John call his name one last time...

...before smashing to the ground.

_Wait, how did that happen?_ Sherlock thought. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. That wasn't part of the plan. And it actually hurt.

Sherlock could feel his fractured skull and the blood on his face. The coldness of the pavement. The whiteness of the sky blinding him. _I want to see you_.

_Before I die_... Because he was dying. This hadn't been part of the plan, either, but he could feel the life flow out of his body like sand running out of a shattered hourglass.

_Shattered..._ He was shattered, quite literally so. The thought made him want to chuckle darkly, but he realized his body was already cold and rigid. Was he dead, then? But it didn't make sense. He could still feel. He could still _see_. Watch...

And watch he did, when John came running to him and cried out "Let me through! He's my friend...". He watched his face as he leant over him to take his pulse, and suddenly he wished, desperately so, crazily so, that he could grab John's wrist and hold it back. _Stay! Please stay... Don't leave me... Don't leave me here to die..._

But he found that he was unable to do so, and John was taken away, letting go of his hand, letting go of _him_. Sherlock just lay there like a broken doll, incapable of moving, incapable of calling him back. He was frozen. _Dead_. Dead, dead, dead, dead...

This time he did not wake up abruptly. His eyes simply opened, automatically, as he died for good in the nightmare. His face was cold, and he thought stupidly at first that it was because of the moonlight flooding it. Soon, however, he became aware of the wetness. Something was falling again.

_Tears_, he realized with surprise.

He was breaking. _Why?_

Sherlock could no longer remember. Because he had deleted everything about John Watson, everything except John himself, he could not understand why this man had such destructive power on him. Like a typhoon, he was wrecking havoc, separating the islands of his mind palace; he shattered him, scattered him around, and the shreds Sherlock had been torn into no longer made any sense at all...

Lost, he drowned in his own tears of meaninglessness. In the distance of the dark room surrounding him, and yet which felt so far, Sherlock heard the door open and somebody's steps come closer to him.

"Hey. I'm back. What's happened to you? Sherlock."

Sebastian sat on his bed, and Sherlock felt too exhausted and too cold to push him away – too occupied with the emptiness that was filling him, and with the paradox it represented.

"I leave for two days, and this is how I find you? Really, Sherlock..." Moran petted his hair soothingly, relishing the smoothness of the black curls – relishing the iciness of the ear and cheek, revelling in the silent cries.

"Shh... It's going to be all right. You're here. I'm here. You're alive, and _he_ is alive. And you're not dead _to me_, Sherlock."

Sherlock still did not move, and gave no sign of acknowledging Seb's presence.

"It's fine, it's all fine... Shall I tell you a story to lull you to sleep? It's a fairy tale. A nice one, too. It teaches you something, so you should like it. Want to hear it?"

He stroked the soft spot behind the earlobe and played with a silky curl. Sherlock did not reply, so he went on.

"Once upon a time when pigs spoke rhyme

And monkeys chewed tobacco,

And hens took snuff to make them tough,

And ducks went quack, quack, quack, O!

All the birds of the air came to the magpie and asked her to teach them how to build nests. For the magpie is the cleverest bird of all at building nests. So she put all the birds round her and began to show them how to do it. First of all she took some mud and made a sort of round cake with it.

"Oh, that's how it's done," said the thrush; and away it flew, and so that's how thrushes build their nests.

Then the magpie took some twigs and arranged them round in the mud.

"Now I know all about it," says the blackbird, and off he flew; and that's how the blackbirds make their nests to this very day.

Then the magpie put another layer of mud over the twigs.

"Oh that's quite obvious," said the wise owl, and away it flew; and owls have never made better nests since.

After this the magpie took some twigs and twined them round the outside.

"The very thing!" said the sparrow, and off be went; so sparrows make rather slovenly nests to this day.

Well, then Madge Magpie took some feathers and stuff and lined the nest very comfortably with it.

"That suits me," cried the starling, and off it flew; and very comfortable nests have starlings.

So it went on, every bird taking away some knowledge of how to build nests, but, none of them waiting to the end. Meanwhile Madge Magpie went on working and working without looking up till the only bird that remained was the turtle-dove, and that hadn't paid any attention all along, but only kept on saying its silly cry "Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."

At last the magpie heard this just as she was putting a twig across. So she said: "One's enough."

But the turtle-dove kept on saying: "Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."

Then the magpie got angry and said: "One's enough I tell you."

Still the turtle-dove cried: "Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."

At last, and at last, the magpie looked up and saw nobody near her but the silly turtle-dove, and then she got rare angry and flew away and refused to tell the birds how to build nests again. And that is why different birds build their nests differently."

Sebastian massaged the tense scalp gently, fascinated with the silvery shine the moonlight merging with tears gave to Sherlock's complexion. He watched as the porcelain eyelids fell on the clear pupils. Sebastian's face split into a rictus.

* * *

><p><em>I never thought I could love anyone.<br>I never thought I could love anyone.  
>I never thought I could love anyone,<br>But you, but you, but you, but you, but you  
>But you make me think that maybe I won't die alone.<br>Maybe I won't die alone. _

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	31. Intelligenti pauca

**A/N:This chapter was kindly betaed by BritChick101. I'm sorry I'm a bit late in updating, but last week was crazy. I really should manage to post a chapter a week from now on - and I should, if I want this done before Season 3 is aired. Hope you enjoy this chapter! :) **_~¤Zoffoli**  
><strong>_

**...**

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"___  
><em>_

**_**Intelligenti pauca: **_**_"Few words suffice for those who understand"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXX:<strong>**_ Intelligenti pauca_**

_Empty bottles, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Look at yourself<br>Are you sad?  
>Are you sad?<br>Don't be afraid  
>It's not bad to be sad<em>

* * *

><p><em><em>Sherlock finally remembered what "Lion Mane" evoked in his memory, eventually finding somewhere in his mind palace that there existed such a fish called Cyanea capillata, also known as Lion's mane Jellyfish – a deadly creature he recalled to have read about. With this, McPherson's last words came under a new light, and Murdoch could definitely be cleared of his colleague's murder. Stackhurst, the headmaster of The Gabbles, said that Sherlock even took a rock and killed the fish himself, after the case was solved – which I personally find a very funny mental image. So Murdoch was exonerated, and Stackhurst gave him back his job, since he had done nothing but help as a go-between for McPherson and his secret beautiful fiancée Maud Bellamy. <em>_

__(Happy) end of the story (well, except for poor McPherson and his dog). This shows you should never bath into Sussex ponds without checking for deadly fish species first...__

You sigh satisfactorily once you've written the last word of this case. You've been working on it for days, after all, and have even taken the trouble to contact Stackhurst yourself in order to get a first-hand account of the events.

Glancing at your watch, you realize you're going to be late if you do not hurry. You jump to your feet and run up to your room to change – Mary likes red and green jumpers on you the best, you know, and presently you are wearing a blue one. Absentmindedly, you wonder if Sherlock had any preference at all as to your jumpers – more precisely, if there were any that he found less distasteful than others – then dismiss the thought as utterly stupid (as if Sherlock would have bothered with such useless musings).

You check you've shaved properly this morning – although you know Mary doesn't care much about that – and, content with your appearance, leave Baker Street without turning your laptop off. You'll probably have time to work on another case tonight, after your date.

When you get to the bar, Mary is waiting outside, smoking. Just seeing her there, you know you are more than twenty minutes late. A tender smile spreads across your face unwittingly, and as you walk up to her, turns into an apologetic one. She glares, pouts, and turns her head to the other side in theatrical discontent. In truth, she is waiting for you to kiss her on the side of the neck, like you always do when you're late – which is, unfortunately, quite often. Your smile widens and this time you kiss her ear, making her jump and glower even more.

"You terrible man!" she exclaims, waving her cigarette in front of you threateningly. "What case did you stand me up for this time?"

"I didn't stand you up, dear," you argue teasingly, well aware that she hates being called that – or any other sweet name, for that matter.

"Oh, really, _darling?_ What do you call that, then?"

"I'm sorry I made you wait."

"You're inviting me tonight."

"I'm always inviting you."

"That's not true!" she protested with an adorable offended frown.

"You never pay – it's either me, or on the house. I should be thanking Jerry."

She sulks, and retorts haughtily as she bends down to put out her cigarette on the pavement:

"Fine. But you'd better tell me all about that fascinating case you were late for. What happened this time?"

"Well, you see, it's the sad yet comical story of one of the weirdest accidental deaths I've ever heard..."

You spend the evening agreeably chatting, jumping from one subject to another easily – alcohol helping. When she orders a Bloody Mary, though, you know something isn't quite right.

"Have you talked to your parents yet?" you ask tentatively.

She shrugs, but you catch a flash of anger traversing her lovely gaze.

"They're idiots."

"I know, you've told me."

"Jerks, too."

"You've told me that as well."

She turns puppy dog eyes to you and gives her cutest pleading look. You are vaguely reminded of Sherlock's pout when trying to extort cigarettes from you.

"Will you hate me if I don't call them?"

"Of course not. But they're your parents, you know..."

"Oh yeah, I know," she replies gloomily.

You never like it when her brow darkens like this.

"It's no big deal, Mary, I just thought you might want to invite them to the wedding party, since..."

"Since they'd be so happy I went back to the 'right path' and married a man, instead of sleeping around with women?" she cut in bitingly.

Gently, you take her hand in yours.

"Can't we just pretend they're dead?" she goes on, her tone almost begging.

You can't help but think of all the people you loved who died – your parents, first of all, then war companions, then Sherlock... She seems to grasp it instantly as you avert your eyes, and she presses your fingers in her palm.

"I'm sorry," she says precipitately.

You smile.

"It's okay. Look, I just want you to be excited about this, and not all worried and whatnot."

"I am excited!" she asserts, so loudly several other clients turn to you. To be fair, you're quite used to that by now. She doesn't even blush, and doesn't seem embarrassed in the least.

Since the subject is clearly upsetting her, you just drop it, and go on to talking about her pupils. As always, her face brightens immediately, and she can talk for hours about how silly and amusing and adorable and brilliant kids can be. You listen to her with a smile, enjoying the sheer warmth radiating from her sparkling irises, and her laughter chases away any shadow the day may have cast upon your mood. In a very different way than Sherlock, she's like the sun.

You part a few hours later, and kiss at the door of the bar. You never went to her place, and she's never come to Baker Street. You agreed that you'd see her flat after the wedding, and that the party should take place there – as a goodbye to the apartment she would leave, to move into 221B. It is a funny way to proceed, you suppose, but quite fitting for the situation. As you press your lips to hers, you revel in the distinct taste of tobacco, tabasco and lemon, and wonder almost unconsciously how different Sherlock's lips would have felt and tasted if you'd kissed him that night you both thought Irene Adler had died. He hadn't drank any cocktail, but he had smoked that one cigarette. _If I had died when you were still alive, would you have smoked one too? A few more, perhaps, since you'd known me for a bit longer?_

"Goodnight, John. See you tomorrow at the park."

"Goodnight, Mary. Have a nice day tomorrow."

"Ha ha, I will!"

Her laughter crackles in the night like a crystal clear fire, frank and daringly musical. You kiss her again, barely a peck this time, but joyous and dynamic, and you're already looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.

* * *

><p><em>Dust off your hands<br>And reach into foreign lands  
>Of your mind<br>Dont be kind 'cause we're all fools  
>Each others' tools<em>

* * *

><p>"So... you're saying you're waiting to marry him to go out anywhere other than this bar or the park near your school, and to have sex?" Cathy reformulates, disbelieving.<p>

"I know I'm an idiot, all right!" Mary bursts out, very annoyed with herself and the situation. "I was the one who told him I'd only go out with him if he married me, so now..."

"So now you thought that doing one stupid thing wasn't enough, and so you decided to keep being stupid until the wedding. Now I get it."

"Oh, shut up," Mary grumbles, lighting her umpteenth cigarette this morning.

.

"You're an idiot," Sebastian says. You shrug.

"She's the one who set the rules, you know."

"That's what I said."

"Hey! I want no male chauvinists in this flat!" Harry shouts from the kitchen, following their conversation; Chris breaks into laughter.

"She sounds like a funny girl. I'm really looking forward to meeting her."

You send her a thankful smile – she seems to be the only one to support your relationship with Mary. Mrs. Hudson thinks it isn't very serious, even though she's happy for you; Greg thinks you've gone bonkers, but he seems to have got used to the idea; Mike and Bill are glad, but think you're rushing things a bit, Seb keeps laughing at you, and Harry already hates Mary without having ever met her.

"Well, I am not!" she intervenes from the kitchen again – she is washing the dishes, and quite honestly you are rather surprised not to have heard any breaking noise yet.

"Oh come on, Harry, don't be a twat!" Chris chides with a frown. Then to you, with a smile: "It will be a pleasure to see you together, I'm sure."

"And how can you be so sure?" Harry insists, bursting into the room in her turquoise-coloured apron, her hands wet and full of soap.

"Don't let the water running like that!" Chris protests before joining her in the kitchen – you exchange a knowing smile as she walks past you. Harry always does that when she wants a hug but won't ask for it – that is, she does something to annoy Chris, so she'll come up to her, and give her her full attention. You seriously don't know how anyone could stand such a person. Then again, you're not one to talk.

.

"But how can you be sure he's the right one?" Cathy insists, sneaking a hand in Mary's pocket as they walk to get her lighter, so she will stop chain-smoking. But Mary notices, and catches her hand with a frown, shaking her head curtly.

"He's funny. He's kind. He's weird. He can be alternatively cute and hot, and as far as clothes are concerned, his taste is as bad as mine – or so people say. We're made for each other, don't you think?"

"Does he smoke?"

"No."

"I do."

Mary stares.

.

"I'm sure you'll come to like her," you tell Harry as you sit for coffee in hers and Chris's living-room. "Really! She's not boring, she's kind, funny..."

"Give it up, John", Seb interrupts. "She would've hated Sherlock too, just for the sake of it, if you had ever married him."

The thought is so preposterous you burst out laughing, choking on your drink.

"What?" Sebastian protests. "You could've gone to Canada too!"

"If there had been some nice, incomprehensible murder there, yes. But to _marry_? Ha ha, that's such a crazy thing to say! I can really tell you never met Sherlock."

Sebastian shrugs, and you miss his amused smirk as you take another sip thoughtfully.

.

"You've only met him once!" Mary protests, irritated with Cathy's repeated deprecatory remarks about John.

"And that was quite enough, thank you very much."

This is too much, and Mary stops dead in her tracks, now definitely cross.

"I am going to marry him, Cath. I love him, and if you can't understand that, then you can just piss off."

Cathy rolls her eyes dramatically, and keeps walking.

"Really? And who will be your best friend whose shoulder you'll come to cry on when all this ends in tears?"

"It won't!"

"Of course it will."

"And why, pray tell?" Mary asks in a mockingly contemptuous tone.

"Because it always ends badly with you."

.

"This just can't have a happy ending, you know," Harry presses on one last time before you leave for the clinic; now she really is wearing you down. "You're in love with Sherlock, aren't you?"

Your expression darkens visibly, and you reply in a grave tone:

"I am. But Sherlock is dead, and I love Mary. I really don't see the problem."

Harry sighs, and shakes her head.

"I'll cheer for you, John, don't worry. I'm just not sure about this."

"Well, we are. Isn't that all that matters? Who knows what will happen tomorrow anyway? As long as this makes us happy, I really don't see why anyone should have a say in it."

Harry gives you a small smile, and nods.

"You're right. I'm looking forward to meeting her next Saturday."

.

"Will you be there next Saturday?" Mary inquires, somewhat hesitatingly.

This time, it is Cathy's turn to stop and glare before she walks down the underground stairs.

"Mary, don't get me wrong. I would've loved to have you in my bed, but if you're happy with that guy, I'll be happy for you. It's your bloody wedding, girl, of course I'll be there! See you later."

And with those words she's gone, leaving a jaded, smiling Mary behind.

"That just shows how serious you were about me," she murmurs with a chuckle before leaving herself.

.

"Oh well," you muse as you leave Harry's flat, "At least that shows she is taking us seriously."

.

* * *

><p><em>When the cracks on my bedroom ceiling<br>Give me this empty bottle feeling  
>I think its time to repaint<br>It's time to repaint myself_

* * *

><p>You are beaming when you walk out of the Register Office with Mary that day, and are sure that you haven't felt as happy in months – nor as nervous. You asked Greg to be your witness, and even though he grumbled that he felt like he was doing something Sherlock wouldn't have approved of, he was touched enough and gladly accepted. Mary's witness is that weird girl you met the second day you went to the Bar – her ex. And that in itself is quite comical, too.<p>

"We'll meet at my place in two hours, then!" Mary tells them as she grabs your hand and pulls you away. "We'll take a walk around a bit, and I want to show John the school."

"And the flat, too, I presume," Cathy mumbles sullenly. Greg laughs, and nods.

"We'll meet you there, then. And again, congratulations to the both of you."

Mary sends him the brightest smile before dragging you away down the street. You hail a cab, let her announce the address, and kiss her senseless on the back seat while she laughs and tries to tickle you.

"Here we are!" she exclaims gleefully as she leads you from the park you used to meet in for lunch sometimes to the school she teaches in. "This is it! Well, the building isn't especially nice or anything, but I still wanted to show it to you. I love this place because of the brats."

You like how she always calls them 'the brats', with such a fond smile lighting up her face. Taking her hand and lacing your fingers with hers, you ask teasingly:

"Will you want to see the clinic, too?"

She grimaces disgustingly – she profoundly hates hospitals and such – then seems to realize something and answers:

"Well, I guess I could make an effort for you..."

Chuckling, you lean in to peck her on the cheek, and she understands you were joking.

"Oh, you silly man!"

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"Yes it was. It's a word you use to describe your pupils, and you love them."

"So you think I love you?" she inquires with her hilarious snob mimicry, sending him a theatrically scornful look.

"Ummm... I dare say you do," you reply playfully, circling her waist and bringing her closer to you, just enough to give her an Eskimo kiss.

After the tour of the school area, she brings you to her own neighbourhood, showing you around as if you were the one about to move in. In truth, she probably just wants to show you everything that's been part of her everyday life for the past few years, just to share her past a bit more with you, before you start building something together. Somehow, you begin to feel a little guilty for making her leave all of this – you told her from the beginning that you wouldn't leave Baker Street, and offered that she visit the flat before you went to publicize your intent to marry at the Register Office. But she had declined, and said it would be more fun to discover the flat the very day of your wedding...

Her flat is lovely. Small, but very bright, oriented south. The decoration is cheerful and homely, pleasant in its simplicity, but you have time to catch a glimpse of the mess in her room before she closes the door hurriedly. You smile.

After you've prepared everything for the small, intimate party you decided to have with close friends and family only (as it turned out, Mary didn't have many friends either, anyway, much like yourself) you start greeting everyone at the door. You're so happy about everything that you no longer feel anxious about Harry meeting Mary. She arrives with Chris and Sebastian just after Greg and Mike, soon followed by Bill, Cathy, Mrs. Hudson and Jerry (who took off his evening just to attend). Molly and Shinwell were not in town, and of course Molly apologized profusedly.

Another friend of Mary's is coming tonight, and you almost choke as you open the door to him with a smile. But your smile abruptly turns into an expression of shock and horror. To be fair, the expression is very much shared by the other man.

"John... You're that John?!"

"Good evening, Peter," you mutter, gritting your teeth. You have no idea how you can let that man in to your wedding party when the first – and last – time you saw him was at his place and you almost slept with him. Right now, you feel very much like running away again.

"Hey, Peter! It's been a while!" Mary exclaims happily, running to him and giving him a hug.

"What, you invited him?" Cathy groans.

You really wish you could disappear now. Right now. But it's your bloody wedding party, how could you not attend?

Peter is still in shock, too, and keeps staring at you dumbly. You glare, trying to convey the message 'you're making everything so obvious, you idiot', and failing miserably.

"Do you know each other?" Cathy inquires, arching an eyebrow suspiciously. Mary turns to you with a smile, a question in her merry eyes. You gulp.

"Uhm... right. Come here."

Grabbing Mary by the wrist, you bring her to the kitchen and whisper:

"Do you remember that one guy that convinced me that I couldn't possibly be gay?"

"The one you left standing there naked on his bed?"

You swallow with some difficulty.

"Right. That one."

Slowly, her eyes widen as realization dawns on her. She breaks into a fit of giggles.

"Oh God, John, you're really someone. Ha ha ha! I love you."

And with those words, she kisses you in a surge of affection, and you can't believe you were lucky enough to meet such a wonderful woman. You beam into the kiss. "I love you too."

"Oohooh! This isn't the time to be all lovey-dovey, leaving your guests alone!" Sebastian suddenly cuts in as he bursts into the kitchen, making you jump.

"Haha, that's right! Let's party now!" Mary exclaimed. Then, turning to you: "Can I tell them?"

"What?! No! What the... No way!"

"Aw come on! This is hilarious, you know."

"Thank you very much," you grumble sullenly. Of course, it is hilarious, but it isn't something you'd want to shout on the roofs for everyone to hear. And seriously, the situation would be so awkward... You start suddenly as you feel her hand on yours, and look up to her.

"Precisely, love."

You shiver. If you forget about the 'love' and the tender gesture, this could've almost sounded like Sherlock. Reading your thoughts. Already knowing what should be done, even if it seems crazy. Overwhelmed, you hug her tightly. "I really love you."

As you embrace her, you miss her wistful smile, and the moved, caring look in her eyes.

You follow her back into the living-room and walk up to Peter.

"Look, I'm sorry about happened. Obviously, it was a mistake on my part, and I..."

"Hey, no worries, mate! I mean, it's quite clear now that you weren't just repelled by me, y'know. Just the wrong gender or something. But really, you're such a tea..."

"That's quite enough Peter, thank you!" Mary cuts in, still chuckling.

"Wait... Are you saying that's the guy whom..." Harry trails off, having overheard the conversation as she was chatting with Mrs. Hudson.

"Such a coincidence, isn't it?" Mary says with a smirk, hardly repressing a giggle.

She and Harry exchange one look, and burst out laughing, no longer able to hold back. You sigh, and roll your eyes. Well, at least, they'll get along...

"Congratulations, John," Mrs. Hudson tells you, pressing your hand with emotion. "I am truly glad you found someone. And, you know, he would've been happy too... No, scratch that, he would've sulked for months and been even more insufferable than usual."

You laugh with her whole-heartedly. "I'm glad you're here, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

The rest of the party is joyous and simple. It's good to see your friends, who have never met with each other before, talk animatedly in a room you've just discovered, and that Mary will leave definitely soon.

Once everyone is gone, you and Mary clean the room and wash the dishes. You notice her suitcase for tonight is already done.

"So... How do you feel?" she asks.

"Exhausted?" you offer with a smile.

Your gazes lock and you both let out a silly giggle as you look away. As you finish drying up the last glass Mary has washed, your face becomes slightly graver.

"Mary, listen... Are you sure it's all right for you to move out? You seem to like this place a lot."

"I do," she concurs. "I do, but I've already made up my mind. That's why I wanted to say goodbye today. Plus, there's no point in getting married if we don't live together, right? And don't you think we've waited long enough?"

She glances at you, and a crooked smile creeps up your face.

"That's thanks to you, though. But you know that already."

Pouting, she averts her gaze and goes to get her suitcase, but drops the act quickly.

"Say, John, you're not having second thoughts about this, are you?"

"What? No! God, no!"

"Good. I promise I won't smoke in the flat, and I will go down to do so."

Smiling, you peck her on the cheek and get the suitcase for her. "The best would be for you to stop smoking you know. Your health?"

She pouts as she closes and locks the door behind her.

"Thanks, doctor."

* * *

><p><em>Try not to peer through plastic eyes<br>__Through plastic eyes  
>Peel back the rind<br>And you'll find something kind_

* * *

><p>"Wow. That's quite a nice place you've got here!"<p>

"Do you really think so?"

"Well, yeah, if you ignore the grinning skull on the mantelpiece and that horrible wallpaper. But I'm sure you love it and want to keep it that way, so long live the skull! You really are obsessed with anatomy, aren't you, doctor? Is the whole skeleton in the bedroom?"

Her laughter fills the room, flooding her teasing tone. You realize that to a stranger, the flat may indeed look weird, and not full of memories. Well, to you, it is both; but weirdness has just become familiar. To you, Sherlock's presence is everywhere in 221B; yet Mary can't know, since she never met him. There are no pictures of the consulting detective hung on the wall, no obvious token of him having lived here. But to you, to you...

"Actually, it was Sherlock's," you admit. "Said it was his friend when we met."

"Oh well. Always better than pictures of you two together everywhere."

You send her an amused glance, shaking your head.

"Dinner?"

"Not hungry."

"That's even better."

You find that you love sharing smiles with her.

* * *

><p><em>You're still you, remember you<br>Rosy child, strong and wild  
>With apple lungs<br>You, you breathe with ease  
>Floating on the breeze<br>Floating on the breeze_

* * *

><p>"So... You didn't call your parents in the end," you say as you are both lying down on your bed, bathing in the moonlight filling the room.<p>

"I did," she retorts. "I just didn't invite them."

Her night gown is white – to make up for the dress, she said. Her wedding dress, which was bright green.

"Are you serious?"

"Hmm. Quite serious. Actually, I did tell them they could come, and that it would make me happy."

"Then you did invite them! What did they say?"

"No."

"...No?"

"No."

"...Did you tell them I was a man?"

"No."

Chuckling, you kiss her softly.

"You're impossible, you know."

"Just your type, right?" she teases back.

"Possibly," you reply playfully, cupping her face and playing with her cheeks.

"I was happy to meet your sister," she says out of the blue. "I really like her."

"I'm glad! I think she likes you too."

"I always wished I had siblings."

"A big brother?"

"Exactly!"

"I knew it."

"Pff... You're not allowed to be a jerk tonight. It's our wedding night after all."

"Actually, I've been thinking – perhaps you're not that weird, but just old-fashioned."

"...Right. That would make sense if I hadn't lost my virginity yet. Which isn't the case, just so you know."

"I had gathered."

"Was the first person you fell in love with a man or a woman?"

"Hmm... A man, I think."

"You think?"

"It was a silhouette. I couldn't see their face, they walked so fast past me."

"Love at first sight, uh? In a peculiar way, I guess..."

"What about you? Who was your first love?"

You smile, trying to hide the doubt. If you really had to think about this one, you wonder if you wouldn't answer 'Sherlock', because you don't think you truly loved anyone before him. But then again, his death might have messed up your head – distance can make you idealize things a bit, and once they're lost forever, they appear in your memory like the best things that ever happened to you. To be fair, it is probably true in Sherlock's case.

"She was a girl two years older than me."

"Elder sister of a friend?"

"Exactly."

"Haha, I'm not surprised! Let me guess: she turned you down."

"Yup."

Mary laughs. "Well, too bad for her. She has no idea what she lost."

"I was quite different then, though."

"How?"

"Well, smaller, for one thing."

"Really?! I didn't think that was possible."

"Oh, you..."

Diving on her, you assail her with tickle, enjoying hearing her crystalline laughter fill the room.

* * *

><p><em>When the cracks on my bedroom ceiling<br>Give me this empty bottle feeling  
>I think it's time to repaint<br>It's time to repaint my..._

* * *

><p>It's funny how natural everything feels when you're with her. You're not awkward at all, and you can rarely predict her reactions. Like now.<p>

"Tell me more about Sherlock."

Dumbfounded, you stare at her in the semi darkness of the room.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Yes, but... I think I already told you everything. Is something bothering you?"

"No, not at all. But it feels like you didn't tell me the most important thing. Something you've never told anyone."

You blink, not sure what she means by that.

"I swear I'm not hiding anything from y–"

"No, no, no, that's not what I meant," she interrupts. "Just... Think about it. Perhaps you've never told even yourself."

_Something I have never told even myself?_ you muse with puzzlement. What did you not tell yourself about Sherlock? You've been thinking of him every minute of your life since his death. You've been dreaming of him, you've been craving his mere presence in the room, you've... _Oh._

"I wish I had told him," you murmur. "I wish I had told him before he died."

Your whisper is strangled in your throat, and you close your eyes. Mary takes your hand in hers.

"Told him what?"

"What I said to his gravestone, what he deserved to hear... That he is the best man I ever met, and that he gave me so much... without even intending to give anything, without trying to be kind at all, or considerate, or _human_... I should've told him how important he was, how _crucial_ he was so he would think twice before j... before jumping off a bloody roof."

Slowly, very gently, Mary snuggles closer to you and embraces your cold body, resting your head on her shoulder. You take a deep breath.

"Don't you think he knew already?" she asks quietly.

"But he killed himself! He didn't even tell me, he... He must have felt _so_ alone..."

"Just think for a second, John. If he didn't tell you the truth, don't you think it is precisely because he knew? He knew you'd try to stop him, and probably die in the process. And I can't know what was going on in his head at the time, or ever, because he was a mad genius, and I'm no genius even if I'm a bit mad, but... That's beside the point... Anyway, what I'm trying to say..." She hugs you closer, nuzzling your hair unconsciously. "He didn't want you to die. He thought the whole thing through so you would live, and he probably didn't consider it as a suicide at all. Rather, a logical conclusion to his reasoning. You had to live. For some reason I can't quite fathom, he had to die so you could do so. Problem solved, period. Well, except he wasn't a machine, and surely he must have felt something, but... I don't think he felt alone. He cared, John. He cared, and from what you told me, he must have had a good reason to do what he did, and I know, I _know_ he did it for you, or at least above all, for you. Because he wanted you to live."

You weren't aware you were weeping, but suddenly you realize the wetness on your cheeks and you bury your face in the welcoming chest.

* * *

><p><em>When the cracks on my bedroom ceiling<br>Give me this empty bottle feeling  
>I think its time to repaint<br>It's time to repaint myself_

* * *

><p>It hurt, she thought. She was never one to like melodrama, but this raw, silent pain cut into her soul more effectively than any misfortune she had ever encountered. John was such a strong man – so brave, too. He could still love, he could still laugh with all his heart, and he hadn't shut himself off somewhere far away where no one could ever reach him: he could live with the ghost memory of the man he'd lost. He was living, truly living, and Mary admired him for it. A lot.<p>

She also couldn't help but think how unfair this whole situation was. What was the point of separating two people who cared for each other so much? There wasn't any. It was absurd, meaningless, and plain horrible. There really was no justice whatsoever in the world.

But John was brave, and he did not start hating the world. He was still a doctor, and he was still taking care of people. He made efforts with his family even if he did not feel very close to his sister, and did not turn into an embittered, broken man. And she loved him for that. When she had met him the first time, he was just that weird, funny _straight_ guy hanging out alone in a very gay bar. He was disturbingly honest and so open about everything, coming up to her directly to ask if she really had just stuck her tongue at him, regardless of how silly such a question sounded from a complete stranger.

John was fun to be with, kind and full of humour, yet not boring at all – not perfect in the least, which was Mary's personal sense of perfection.

"It's fine if you cry, though," she suddenly said out loud.

"And whose fault is that?" John grumbled from her chest. Amused, she kissed the top of his head and slid down so their noses would touch.

"Aw, look at you, all grumpy. That's not cute at all. Well, actually it is, but... Wargh!"

She jumped back as he attacked her again, tickling her and kissing her face all at once. She laughed and tried to push him back, to no avail.

"St... Stop! You're... ha ha ha!"

Finally he seemed to get tired of it, and she could catch her breath. She sighed relaxedly, relief obvious on her features.

"You know, you don't have to have recourse to such techniques if you don't want to have sex with me."

"What the... Of course I want to! You've made me wait for more than two weeks, remember?"

She smirked as she turned back to him.

"To be fair, love, I've also made myself wait more than two weeks."

They exchanged a grin.

* * *

><p><em>Maybe blue or green<br>Or something in between  
>Maybe blue, maybe green<br>Maybe something in between_

* * *

><p>It started with teasing caresses and quick, stolen pecks on unexpected spots. But now, now that night clothes are scattered around the room, the game has gone to another level, though it hasn't lost any of its fun. You are only worried that it won't lead to proper physical results on your body – that is, you truly hope it will be enough to get you erect, because you categorically refuse to think of anything close to Sherlock tonight. It would be terribly insulting, and Mary isn't just a one night stand: she is now your wife.<p>

"Um, Mary, there's something I must tell you..."

"You've got a hidden kid somewhere?"

"What? No! I... Um... I haven't..."

"Oh. That. Well... Let's see what I can do about it, shall we?"

And see it, you did. You probably never chuckled so much during sex, repressing your laughter so as not to wake the whole neighborhood. Mary is tender, teasing, eccentric and funny even in bed, and it is so much like her that you enjoy it greatly. That is, until she finds a piece of clothe under your pillow while riding you, and brings it out in surprise.

"Oh? What's that? Is it a habit of yours to sleep with crumpled shirts?"

Your heart misses a beat and the air catches in your throat as you stare, alarmed. _Sherlock's shirt. How could I have been so stupid and not removed it? Idiot, idiot, idiot..._

Trying to think of something, anything, you look around desperately; but it is quite hard to remain focused when she is on you and holding that damn shirt.

"Mary, look, I..."

"Thank God I know you're not gay, or I would've been rather hurt to find someone else's clothes in your bed, darling," she sussurrates, and you can't tell if her tone is tantalizing or threatening. Both, perhaps. She looks at the shirt closely.

"How do you know it's someone else's?" you ask in one breath.

"Please. It's classy, John."

"Hey!"

She sticks her tongue at you and puts the shirt next to the pillow. You let out a groan as she bends and moves on you.

"Well. Hopefully I'll be better than a shirt. But if you want to keep it as a cuddly toy, I don't mind – I'll just try to forget where it comes from."

Having said that, she leans in and presses her lips to yours, and it feels like a gift. You love her for her understanding, and for her respect: her respect for the man who's become part of you and which she fully accepts. _Sherlock._

* * *

><p><em>Maybe blue or green<br>Maybe something  
>In between<br>In between _

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

.

.

_tbc_


	32. Oculos habent et non videbunt

**A/N: **This chapter was kindly betaed by MusicWritesMyLife.

**...**

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_**_  
><em>

_**Oculos habent et non videbunt:** "They have eyes and they do not see."  
><em>

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXXI: <strong>_**Oculos habent et non videbunt**_

_Lady in Spain, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I am a lady in Spain<br>I'll sing a haunting refrain  
>I am a lady from Mars<br>And I can unscrew the stars  
>I can be anything that I see<br>I can be anything that I, anything that I see_

* * *

><p>The weather today was endowed with a briskly stimulating coldness. Invigorated, Irene smiled and delicately tilted her head to the side, enjoying the shiver that ran down her spine under her vermilion cashmere dress.<p>

"Are you cold, Ms. Rose?" the man still lying on the bed inquired in a religiously respectful tone, rubbing his wrists.

Irene looked away from the coolness of the window and turned to the fool. This one had seemed a little more challenging than the others at first, but in the end he was just as easily duped. Could it truly be that there was not one man as challenging as Sherlock Holmes on the face of the earth?

Apparently not. Especially since the consulting criminal was now the worms' property.

"I don't remember saying anything about you being allowed to speak to me yet," she answered finally as she picked up her coat, not sparing one look at the bed. "But you've been good until now, so I shall forgive you."

"When will I see you again?" he insisted.

She sent him a very amused smirk, her eyes sparkling with mockery.

"Why, dear, never." _You're useless now._

And with that, she closed the door behind her.

Yi Ling was waiting for her in a car a few streets away.

"Miss Salome! Are you all right? You are late!"

"Is that a reproach?" Irene asked her teasingly as she got into the car.

Yi Ling turned crimson.

"Of course not, Miss Salome! I would never dare..."

"Good girl. Did you do the shopping?"

"Yes, Miss Salome. I went to Dior and Valentino and..."

"That's enough, thank you. Did you find a white dress?"

"Yes, Miss Salome."

"Perfect. I'll change now."

The poor maid's eyes widened in shock. Admittedly, the pane separating them from the driver's seat was dark-tinged glass, like in all the cars Irene requested.

"You want to change in the car?"

"That's what I said. Are you tired?"

"No, no! My apologies. I will help you."

Irene smiled wolfishly, yet in an endearingly charming way, and took off the soft piece of clothing she was wearing, replacing the blood red with unalloyed white, and letting her hair down. Yi Ling took the dress that her mistress had removed, her cheeks matching its colour. She averted her gaze, trying pointedly not to look.

"What are you so embarrassed about? You have seen me undress many times before."

"Shall I help you remove your make-up, Miss Salome?"

"Oh dear, and now you're avoiding my questions? Do I have to give you a lesson?" Irene teased.

Yi Ling let out a little cry, but seemed to muster all her self-control and frowned up at her mistress.

"I think it is too dangerous for Miss Salome to do this when Mr. her husband is in town with her," she remarked as she dabbed Irene's cheekbones gently with make-up remover.

Irene had never liked anyone touching her face in such a way, and she found it patronizing at first. But Yi Ling was so devoted, and so adorably candid in everything she did, that the Woman decided she could indulge her in this. Yi Ling was always the one to remove her make-up now.

"What makes you say that? You got everything I needed. I will tell him I went shopping, and you know he will believe me."

"But what if he doesn't, one day?"

"He always will," Irene assured confidently. Samuel Hupaetos was the perfect husband. If she wore his favourite colour – white, naturally – and painted her face with soft, soft colours, he would never ask anything. He would never resist her.

Irene took out her phone. Her fingers ran over the keyboard smoothly, French manicured nails never in the way.

**_I have the names. You were right – it does point to her._**

She paused a second, before finishing her text.

_**Won't you invite me to dinner?**_

A thin smile spread across her face as she pressed the SEND button. She turned to Yi Ling, who was holding a mirror out to her so she could put her new mask on.

"Miss Salome really does love the mysterious gentleman, doesn't she?"

Irene stopped in the middle of colouring her lips a light incarnadine tinge, and stared. Yi Ling must have been quite worried and quite determined, for she held up her gaze.

"Are you jealous?"

"Of course not! I have no right to be."

_We're not a couple!_

Irene chuckled at the echoing memory.

"Well, you're more honest than him."

"Than who?" Yi Ling asked, overly confused.

Irene kissed her cheek to silence her and murmured in her ear:

"An old rival."

"You cannot possibly have a rival! Miss Salome is incomparable. You can win anybody's heart."

"I wonder."

Yi Ling frowned.

"Did the rival win, then?"

In the mirror, Irene saw a glint light up in her bright pupils. Funny, she thought, that contentment, pain, cruelty, scorn and pity all intertwined should give such a particular glow to her face, deepening its beauty subtly.

Adding the last touch to her make-up, she replied simply:

"No. He lost."

* * *

><p><em>I am in love with a boy<br>Manufactured to destroy  
>So I shall unravel my love<br>Like an old red woollen glove_

* * *

><p>Her next "mission" was a lot more fun – she got to behave badly in the most pleasant ways – but what was truly thrilling was that she finally met the one at the centre of everything. Well. The one trying to be at the centre of everything, anyway.<p>

"Mrs. Salome Hupaetos. Previously Irene Adler, was it?" the tall, handsome woman sussurrated with a lovely Czech accent as she blocked the way at the bottom of the large marble staircase.

Irene sent her a winning, cutting smile. She continued to walk down gracefully, ignoring the two guards who had appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Ms. Eliska Šárka, I presume."

She looked her from top to toe, and gave a disappointed moue. Eliska arched an eyebrow.

"You're not wearing red," Irene remarked.

"Why should I?" the Czech woman replied sweetly.

"Oh, you know. Shouldn't apples be red?"

Irene was now standing only two steps away from her, and stopped, wishing to remain on higher ground for their little discussion. Eliska's eyes turned to slits.

"I'm afraid I'm not the one who is the poison here, Ms. Adler."

Irene smirked.

"Naturally. You are merely acerbic."

Eliska glared. Irene considered her for a second, her gaze clearly evaluating. She wasn't pretty, but certainly had the quaint charm of ancient queens – imposing, self-assured and contemptuous. Her blond hair and translucent skin should have been too soft and given her a rather faded aspect, but she painted her face most skilfully. A true artist, defining her traits in a mercilessly stunning manner, like the first movie actresses who looked as if they had completely designed their own faces. Yet, Irene could not shake the impression of an irreducible weakness pervading her whole person, negating her finely constructed façade.

"Why are you intervening in something that does not concern you?" Eliska inquired sharply, calm features slipping.

"Why does anyone do anything?" Irene retorted sadistically. She revelled in the sudden pallor of her opponent and the flash of hurt in her eyes, which was soon replaced with sheer fury.

"Don't be so insolent. Do you even realize the situation you are in?"

"Two steps above?" Irene asked innocently.

Eliska glowered.

"Oh, don't look at me that way. I can come down to you, if you wish. I am in a hurry anyway."

And as she said so, she walked down the last two steps, and past Eliska. Of course, the door leading out of the mansion was also guarded by two men. Not a problem, though, Irene thought idly.

"So? Did you want to tell me anything?" Irene inquired.

"Me? Not at all. Just paying a visit to my friend the ambassador. But since you're here as well, I just thought I should warn you."

"Oh? I'm afraid I'm too old to play Snow White, dear."

"Don't worry. There are so many other ways."

Irene observed her pensively for an instant, and commented: "You know, I think you really failed your role. You picked the wrong one. The Snow Queen would have fit you so much better." Then, on second thought: "Or perhaps not. It seems you do not quite have the same power of fascination."

Eliska looked daggers at her, and declared icily: "I could have you killed here and now."

Irene smiled, repressing a snort – which wouldn't have been very elegant. But it was hilarious, the way this idiotic woman was threatening her when she was so obviously the one who was terrified here. She may have been a worthy enemy in some respect, but in the end there was too much of the frustrated spinster in her. And she must have felt it herself, in the presence of the Woman.

"You could. But you won't."

"And why is that?"

"Because your friend the ambassador would have you killed right away, love."

"Ha ha! Such self-importance!"

"It really isn't," Irene answered assuredly. The man she had left in the room upstairs would presently do the most insane things for her. Ms. Šárka really hadn't picked the right timing.

"Also," she added, unable to resist taunting Eliska some more, "aren't we similar, you and I?"

Walking up to the other woman defiantly, she started circling her in a distinctly predatory fashion, her heels clicking against the cold floor.

"We've both been rejected," Irene developed.

Eliska flushed with indignation. "I wasn't rejected!"

This time, Irene stopped pacing, now clearly bored. She shrugged before heading towards the door.

"If you truly believe that, then you are more stupid than you look."

At that moment, the ambassador appeared at the top of the stairs, bewildered by the presence of the guards. Looking down, he noted Irene was still there, and his face lit up.

"Ms. Cyclamen!" he exclaimed. But then he saw Eliska, and the joy on his face was replaced by startlement. "Oh. Do you know each other?"

Irene grinned. "No, we've just met each other. Such a pleasant meeting, too."

The ambassador frowned, evidently quite upset by Irene's ostentatious interest.

"Should I walk you to your car, Ms. Cyclamen?" he stammered.

"Why, that is quite ambitious of you. I believe I told you to remain in your room."

He faltered.

"Yes, of course... But I heard your voice and..."

"Enough. You've been a good boy, so I'll forgive you. And..." She looked at Eliska pointedly. "...I met your friend. It's been a pleasure." Then to the man again: "You can watch me walk out, if you'd like."

"Yes, Ms. Cyclamen! Of course..."

She nodded good bye to Ms. Šárka, her eyes shining with triumph but her stance soberly regal, and ambled off. The two guards by the door stepped aside as she went, head high.

Irene Adler suddenly felt very much like meeting the last woman playing a part in this grand tragicomedy.

* * *

><p><em>I can do anything I want to<br>I can do anything I want, anything my heart tells me to do  
>Tells me to do<br>Tells me to do_

* * *

><p>Mary was drinking her third Bloody Mary and glaring at Jerry, as if daring him to make a comment. Finally he could no longer take it and asked:<p>

"Hey, something wrong with your doctor?"

She pouted.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Then what the hell are you drinking so much for?"

"Can't I enjoy a good drink once in a while?"

"It's your third good drink, though."

"Shut up."

"Should I call Cathy?"

"No!" she protested vehemently. "I'm fine."

Jerry sighed, but did not press the issue any further, turning instead to the client who had just arrived.

"What can I get for you?"

"A Bloody Mary, please," the woman ordered in a deep, sensuous voice that made Mary turn to her with surprise and interest. Well, also because of the drink she had ordered, naturally.

But the woman with the pleasant voice was in fact quite dull on the face of it. She was wearing jeans and a sweater of a nondescript shade. Her hair was plaited into a braid and she was wearing a pair of round glasses that could have made her look like a student, had she been younger. As it was, she just looked like a rather sloppy person. Her eyes, however, sparkled with something indefinable that betrayed an unexpected intelligence behind her unkempt appearance.

"Does he prepare it well?" the stranger asked.

Mary blinked.

"What?"

"The Bloody Mary."

"Oh. Yes, it's good. Very good."

Irene observed her closely as she turned back to her drink. She looked a bit tired, she thought, but not depressed or in a truly miserable state. She also appeared to be stronger than Irene had imagined her – she always thought John more the type to go for common, boring women. Pretty ones, too, and naturally with nice curves. This one was rather flat on the whole – well, not very gifted anyway. Yet Irene found her strangely attractive in a way she could not quite define. Perhaps because "Mary" seemed so wholly present, so completely there, in her own body, without any façade whatsoever. She was obviously upset about something, and was doing nothing to hide it. She was in a gay bar where people came to chat up people, yet she was sulking and did not seem to give a damn about her surroundings. She probably wasn't very smart; but Irene reckoned her candour was quite engaging.

"Here you go," said Jerry as he brought her the drink she'd ordered. She thanked him with a nod.

"You seem to be a regular customer," Irene told Mary, intent on making her talk a bit.

"The barman's an old friend," she replied. Then, as if she suddenly thought of something: "Look, actually I'm married, and I'm not here to..."

Irene burst into laughter.

"Oh dear, I know! You are wearing a ring after all. Sorry to have intruded, I was just curious."

Mary returned her smile, and Irene thought she might not be so ungifted after all.

"I see. Well, I've been coming here for years, even before I was married. Old habits die hard, and this is my second home, so... What about you? I've never seen you around before."

"Oh, I've just arrived in London. I'm only here on holiday."

"Really? Where are you from?"

"Singapore."

Mary goggled.

"Seriously?! Your accent is so good! I would've sworn–"

"I was born in Essex," Irene cut in with a smile. "I just happened to marry a man who lived in Singapore, and moved there with him."

"Oh."

Studying Mary's features, Irene tried to decipher whether she was being deemed an unworthy wife – considering she was hanging out in a gay bar – or whether Mary was only thinking she must have been quite in love, to move so far away.

"So, you're here to visit your family?"

"Not quite. My husband had some business to attend in London, and I just accompanied him."

"I see..."

_No, you don't_, Irene thought, fairly amused.

"So were you into women before you met your husband, or have you just decided to explore the other side?"

This time, Irene had to admit she was quite surprised – agreeably so – by Mary's question. It was so frank, so funny in its directness, that she couldn't help but smile. It was a smile that escaped her, a truly entertained one. Not one meant to be seen and to produce an effect on an addressee.

"I've always been interested in women," she replied smoothly. "And my husband is interested in every attractive human body, I'm afraid. Well, not children, thankfully. But let's say our marriage is quite free."

"Is it?" Mary said absentmindedly.

"Yours isn't, apparently," Irene remarked.

"Ha ha! Well, it is a bit complicated."

"How so?"

"I guess we're just a bit weird, my husband and I," she explained with a smile.

Irene tilted her head to the side to express puzzlement.

"What do you mean? Does he cheat on you?"

"No! God no. He really isn't interested in any human body at all, actually. Well, not any living one. So I'm quite sure he is absolutely faithful. He is irreversibly in love, you see."

"Is he?" Irene asked, quite interested.

"Oh yes. Only, not with me."

Irene stared.

"Don't get me wrong," Mary added, seeing her face. "We love each other dearly. And he's the best man I've ever met."

"But he's not in love with you."

"He's not in love with me."

"And that's all right with you? You seem like quite the romantic type."

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

Irene was, indeed. Mary was proving a much more interesting person than expected. Probably much more idiotic, too.

"So... You love each other but you're not in love with each other... Well, why not. But why did you get married, then? This sounds more like the best friend kind of relationship to me, even if you add some sex in the mix."

Mary looked at her with surprise, and seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then she sent Irene her bright, not-so-pretty, not-so-naive smile – and it was quite dazzling after all.

"Yes. Perhaps you're right."

Irene wondered.

* * *

><p><em>I can be anything that I see<br>I can do anything I want to_

* * *

><p>"Oh. You. What are you doing here?" Sebastian Moran inquired as he met Irene at the door of the little cottage.<p>

"Mr. Holmes invited me over for dinner."

Sebastian stared.

"Dinner? You think that man can cook?"

"Oh dear, you are so coarse..." Irene said with some disdain, although her tone was highly ironic. Now _there_ was a man who knew how to play. Nothing like Mary Morstan's blinding boldness.

Sebastian shrugged.

"Well, enjoy your meal, then."

But Irene caught his arm before he went.

"Do _you_ know how to cook?"

He smirked slightly, not fooled for a second.

"You are the embodiement of Temptation, Ms. Adler. But quite frankly... I really wouldn't want to have a grilling contest with you."

They stared at each other for a moment, but the sniper's face was absolutely unreadable. Quietly ironic and derisive, this man's countenance was that of the unattached adventurer – the jaded, cynical, yet profoundly _uninterested_ type. The most dangerous.

"And you are a true jester, Mr. Moran. It is too bad we did not meet before."

At this, Sebastian laughed whole-heartedly, and Irene was quite bewildered, for his laughter sounded sincere.

"It's hard to find anyone interesting when you have met those two, isn't it?"

Their eyes locked, and Irene's slowly filled with the same knowing glow. Oh, there was something twisted to this whole drama unfolding before them. But in Sebastian's gaze, Irene read the tragedy – never, never the happy ending.

He smiled.

"You're wrong."

It was useless to ask about what. So she let her hand slide down his arm slowly, releasing him instead; her caress, a threat.

"It is too bad you will not talk to me, Mr. Moran," she said. "We could have been good friends."

"I doubt it, Ms. Adler. You would never guess what I like."

And adding a wink to those parting words, he left without looking back. Irene watched his silhouette walk to the motorbike parked on the side of the path, get on it and drive off into the night.

A dangerous man, indeed.

But she was much more interested in the one presently waiting for her by the fireside, his gaze lost in space. Thinking.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

He looked up, as if just noticing her presence, and stood.

"Good evening. Please have a seat."

"While you stand?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I will sit too. We have work to do."

"Indeed."

They sat, and Irene spent the next hour doing her report. It was just like Sherlock had already guessed – "I don't guess," he pointed out grumpily, and Irene was so happy to see some of the old Sherlock back she almost kissed him on the spot.

"So Šárka came to you?"

"I actually pity her, you know," Irene commented idly as she let herself fall back into the armchair, her posture exquisite. Well, in her own eyes, anyway, and probably in any other man's. Sherlock did not even appear to notice.

"I cannot imagine you pitying anyone," he replied coldly.

Irene looked at him intensely.

"You're wrong, then. I pity you."

Sherlock snorted.

"_Please_."

She sat back up and leant in closer towards him.

"Would you like me to make you beg some more?"

"That wasn't begging."

"Matter of definition."

They stared at each other, and the Woman was glad he finally deigned to look at her.

"I thought we would order dinner," Sherlock told her flatly.

Ignoring him, she stood and went to straddle him. He did not react.

"Is that really necessary?"

"If you wish to eat anything, yes."

She brought her hand to his face and traced his eyebrow, continuing down to his cheekbone and his chin.

"I know you want to be punished."

"Why would I?"

"Because you feel abandoned and sullied."

"Why–"

"Shh," she soothed, putting her finger on his lips. "Now you're more broken than believing in a higher instance."

Sherlock smirked sardonically, his eyes tinged with contempt.

"I do not need to 'believe', Ms. Adler."

"Are you really so self-assured?"

"I don't think I even need to answer that."

She searched his eyes, then pouted.

"Bravo, Mr. Holmes. You have become the perfect Count of Monte Cristo."

"I am not seeking revenge."

"Naturally. So tell me, what are you seeking?"

"Just to complete the list of names of IOU."

"For the Iceman?"

"And incidentally, so I can stay alive, too," he pointed out sarcastically. She smirked.

"And what do you want to stay alive for?"

He seemed at loss for an instant – not touched and confused, but rather, not seeing the point of her question at all.

"Do you believe I have become suicidal?"

"Well, you _did_ jump off a roof."

They exchanged an amused glance, before Sherlock broke eye contact promptly.

Irene let her hand fall down to his chest deflty and traced a line across his torso.

"You're no longer deluded, are you? So why are you so reluctant to indulge in this?"

Her fingers came across his thigh, stroking, and caressed his groin.

"You're not a child anymore."

He snorted caustically.

"Because I went around the world and was hunted down? Because I took Jim Moriarty's place? Or perhaps because I killed people with my own hands?"

She traced his lips with her other hand, half teasing, half assuaging. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"You are wasting your time."

"No one will come to interrupt us here."

"There will be nothing to interrupt," he said before trying to get up. But she kept him seated firmly, straddling him even tighter.

"Why won't you let me be your friend?"

"You mean friends with benefit?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Oh, you're being so difficult, I should just take you here and now."

"You really shouldn't."

His tone was cold, but dreadfully honest. Irene stared.

"You don't trust me," she said.

"You've taught me not to."

"I could teach you many other things. More pleasant ones, too."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not interested."

"John Watson got married."

"I've heard, yes. What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm asking you."

They looked each other in the eye. Irene could see nothing there but weariness, and a cold, rational, calculating determination.

Sherlock however must have seen something else in her eyes, for he added in confirmation: "I am just not interested."

"How can you know? You've never tried."

"I did not say I wouldn't like it. But I am not interested in trying."

"It doesn't make sense."

"It's not because you don't understand it that it doesn't make sense."

"You really need to be given a spanking."

"And you really should be looking for entertainment somewhere else."

At his words, Irene felt her chest clench unpleasantly. A sad smile graced her lips, but already her grip was slackening.

"It doesn't have to be a game."

"Yes, it does."

"Why?"

"Because I can never love you."

The image of Mary Morstan flashed across Irene's mind for an instant, but faded just as soon.

"Why be so quaint? Love is such a vague concept."

They had another staring contest, but Irene no longer knew who was searching who.

"Unless you have finally found out what love is?" she went on.

Sherlock appeared to be truly befuddled by the question.

"And where would I have found that?"

"Precisely in what you've lost."

Sherlock blinked.

"But I didn't lose anything."

Slowly, Irene felt something cold creep up her chest. Something that felt like disbelief at first, but soon turned out to be more akin to fear or unease.

"Didn't you?"

"Well, I guess I did lose my job, but it's only a matter of time before I–"

"Enough," she cut in sharply, the dominatrix back all of a sudden. "Have you turned stupid? What about John? That landlady of yours? And the cute D.I.?"

Sherlock scowled down at her tone.

"In what sense did I lose them? They're perfectly safe! I did not lose anything."

And indeed he seemed quite persuaded he hadn't, and merely offended she insinuated that he'd "lost" anything – or at anything. Really a bad loser, she mused.

But still, something did not feel right.

"But they believe you are dead. John Watson believes you're dead."

"Why are you bringing him up so often?" he asked curiously.

"Don't you miss him? Aren't you looking forward to seeing him again?"

"Why would I ever see him again?" Sherlock asked candidly.

She stared, stunned and speechless for less than a second. Now she understood where the sense of unease came from.

"What did you do to your mind?"

"What?"

"Have you forgotten what you 'died' for?"

"There were many factors."

She glared down at him heatedly.

"Do you intend to never go back to London?"

"That would probably be safer."

"Safer? For who?"

"Well, living in London, I'm bound to run into someone I used to know. And since I'm dead..."

"Except you're not."

"To them, I am."

The graveness of his voice betrayed him.

"You're lying to me," she said, realizing it as soon as she voiced it. He looked at her coolly.

She leant in and pressed her lips to his, rather gently at first, then more and more adroitly, in control. Truly an expert.

He simply let her, unmoving. Unmoved. The gaze she met when she broke away was unartificially dispassionate.

He pushed her away gently, but firmly.

"It would always be a game. I do not want to play with you."

Irene heard it as he meant it. _I do not want to play against you._

"I'm sure I could have given you a lot of pleasure, Mr. Holmes. I have a way with broken men."

"I'm sure."

Irene stared. The man before her really was Sherlock Holmes, there was no doubt about that. But what she saw now that he'd stopped fooling around was the figure of a man who should not be played with. Some philosopher once wrote that there is only one thing – only one – that is immune to any kind of irony. "Silent pain." Quiet, wordless suffering. The state in which a mother who had lost her child would be left in, even years after the event, for instance.

Irene Adler was used to playing with men and women. She was used to liking and dumping. She was not so heartless as to never have been in love either. She had no qualms about killing anyone who would have otherwise killed her, be it CIA agent or other. She enjoyed behaving badly, and found being devious one of the most pleasant things in the world.

But Sherlock Holmes was a child, and a virgin. She wasn't so sure about the "child" part, now, and definitely wished she could put an end to the "virgin" one. But Sherlock was also a genius. A very, very lonely genius, who had apparently been completely impervious to anyone's kindness or love before he'd met John Watson. From what Moriarty had told Irene, the landlady, the D.I., and the silly mortuary worker had not especially changed when John had burst into Sherlock's life. But the consulting detective's perception of them had started to change.

Sherlock being the child that he was (or had been at the time, anyway), Irene wasn't sure how he construed his own relationship with John. Irene wasn't sure what was destroying Sherlock, either. His everyday life must have been more hellish than she'd imagined, for sure. But she had thought he would be rather thrilled about it. The only logical explanation was that he couldn't enjoy it because John wasn't here. Couldn't enjoy it because he feared for John's life every instant – and quite rightly so, she mused, considering that dreadful sniper. Couldn't enjoy it because he had to bear the knowledge that he was dead to John, and that the doctor was moving on. In fact, he must have been torn between the wish to see him again, and the wish to remain dead to him forever.

"Perhaps you're still a child..." she murmured, more to herself than to Sherlock. "... or perhaps you're an old man, now."

"Nice alternative."

She made a moue as she stood up and walked to the fireplace.

"Oh well. We'll talk about it again when you're done, shall we? Perhaps you'll be more interested then."

Turning to him again, she added seriously: "But you are doing dangerous things with your own mind, Mr. Holmes. And you have a very dangerous manservant, quite capable of messing with your mind even more. I would take better care of my own sanity, if I were you. Then again..." She went to sit back in the armchair, facing Sherlock. "If you need help dealing with the pain, you can rely on me."

"I will be sure to make a note of it."

As she exchanged a knowing smile with that great, broken man sitting with her in this small cottage bathed in the glow of the fire, Irene Adler mused that the play could not end well for everyone. But that did not mean it had to be a tragedy. Even if the protagonists seemed so intent to make it one, the Woman would have no qualms in duping even them.

Now, the question was: what role would she choose for herself?

* * *

><p><em>I can do anything I want to<br>I can be anything that I, anything that I see..._

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	33. Ad vitam aeternam

**A/N: This chapter has not been betaed yet. All my apologies for any remaining mistakes or typos! Reviews are really, really appreciated ;)  
><strong>

**...**

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"__  
><em>

**Ad vitam aeternam: **_"For all time" ; "Forever"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXXII: Ad vitam aeternam<strong>

_I'm through, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I'm going out again tonight<br>The first time in the longest time  
>He holds the door and holds my hand<br>But doesn't feel like you_

* * *

><p>Snow is falling again today. Swept by the wind outside the snowflakes are waltzing in swirls of shimmering silver specks. Still lying in bed, your face brushing against a non-existent chest, you murmur in a voice still shrouded in sleep:<p>

"I love you."

Your eyes open to the whiteness of the sheet and the figure of the one sharing your bed. You pale. Behind her the windowpane quivers under the relentless onslaught of the wind. She is sleeping by your side, her hair spread over the pillow like a shoal of sand. The shelter of your dream shatters under the sharp sheen of the day reflecting on her blond locks. You smile and as if by magic, she opens her eyes. Waking up to you beaming lights up her face, and she teases drowsily:

"Hello, sunshine."

You realize the sunrays must indeed be falling on you as well; your hair used to be blond too, even if now it's turning rather greyish. Mary snuggles up to you lazily, pressing her fresh cheek to your chest. You can smell the scent of her lemon-verbena shampoo laced with the very light smell of tobacco that impregnates her pyjamas – she likes smoking out of the window before going to bed.

"Your heart is racing," she notes. You shrink and shift a little, embarrassed.

"I should sleep on the couch tonight," you let out in a low voice tinged with shame. Mary sighs.

"Not this again. We've talked about it already."

"But I woke you up again last night."

"Yes. And I fell back asleep right away. I didn't even hear you before you screamed! I'm a heavy sleeper, you know."

"I know," you confirm with a playful smile. She smirks. But soon your face becomes grave again.

"I'm really sorry to be imposing this on you."

"It's OK, John."

"It's not, really..."

Mary shrugs.

"You're making a big deal out of it when it's not."

"Are you truly not bothered by me saying and sometimes screaming the name of a dead man at night?"

"Well, it depends on the dead bloke. I mean I'd probably have a hard time dealing with a husband who'd shout "Hitler!" every night, but..."

She trails off and sticks her tongue at you.

"Oh, you little imp..." you murmur tenderly. You hug her tightly then suddenly tickle her.

"Joohn! Hahaha, John! Stop it already! Waaah!"

Wrapped in the sheet and duvet you both fall off the bed, giggling like idiots.

* * *

><p><em>We laugh at all the people in<br>The restaurant across from us  
>He talks a lot, but not too much<br>But doesn't sound like you_

* * *

><p>Hankering after Sherlock's presence as you are typing about a case one day, you look around and notice how Baker Street has changed. Since Mary has moved in, you can see more jumpers lying around, though hers aren't as horrible as yours (or so she says). You got each other matching ones for Christmas and you found out that Mary actually knits. She's not especially good at it, but good enough for you. And it is so much fun to watch her struggle with her needles while you work on Sherlock's past cases that you would never want her to stop.<p>

The first week she kept muttering that she felt like she was interloping. You offered to remove a few things that made her uncomfortable, but she refused categorically and slowly made the flat her home as well. Your sister said it was fresher now.

As your eyes leave your screen and scan the room pensively, they notice next to the skull on the mantelpiece an incongruously cheerful bouquet of yellow asters in a clean wine bottle – the first one you drank together, and which she insisted you kept. She loves yellow flowers – something you found quite funny since she hates that colour for everything else. But "flowers should be bright and yellow", she claimed, as if the two adjectives were logically linked. She loved sunflowers, mimosa and asphodels the most.

Apart from the jumpers and flowers which you kept finding in unexpected places, very much like you used to find body parts in unexpected places, books, lost earrings, notebooks and various papers from the school she works at are now scattered around the flat. She's definitely as bad with tidiness as Sherlock, you muse fondly. You also found out she used to be a fan of slasher movies and has kept all the DVDs of her youth out of nostalgia, although she doesn't enjoy watching them anymore. You had to add several shelves so all her books would fit, for she owns a great amount of them. When you asked her if she had read them all, she'd gaped in horror and exclaimed, clearly offended: "But of course!"

Your eyes come to a halt on the window. The weather has cleared up a bit and it is now a beautiful but cold winter day. Mary loves winter, and she loves the sea – which is the reason you waited until it was ridiculously cold to go on your honeymoon, during the Christmas holidays. At the beach, naturally. You can't help but chuckle at the memory. It was so cold in the fishermen's village in which you spent a week, and you had bought her an emerald coloured shawl with amber sunflowers in a small shop run by an amicable, gap-toothed old woman Mary now referred to as "The Witch". It turned out she loved witches too.

The door of the living-room opening startles you out of your reverie. You turn to meet Mary's gaze.

"Oh dear," she teases with a grin, "daydreaming about Sherlock again?"

You smirk back and catch her as she walks past you. She cries out in surprise and mock outrage as you make her sit on your laps and give her a kiss.

"Actually, I was daydreaming about you," you tell her.

She goggles, then looks at her watch and says:

"John, we should make this our anniversary date. This is such an exceptional occurrence!"

You roll your eyes and release her. Jumping to her feet, she grins at you and skips along to the kitchen.

"Sorry, I'm a bit late. I was having a cuppa at Mrs. Hudson's and Mrs. Turner was there too. Did you know Joe and Oliver were moving out?"

"_Joe_?" you echo with amusement. "I can tell you're close friends now."

She smirks. "And I can tell you're not. They're your neighbours, for God's sake!"

"And his name is Joseph."

"Yes, yes... Anyway, they're finally moving out like Joe wanted and Mrs. Turner thinks she'll never find tenants as pleasant as them, so she was feeling a bit down."

"And that's why you stayed?"

"Of course."

"Not because you like gossip and enjoy hanging out with older women?"

She glares and you counter-attack with a wink and a winning smile.

"So, been working on a case?" she asks as she comes to join you at the table, bringing a plate of biscuits.

"Yup. Didn't you just eat something downstairs?"

"And what if I did?" she mumbles. "I'm hungry."

"You're eating all the time these days!"

She gives you one of her adorable pouts.

"Are you saying I'm fat?"

"Far from it. But you should eat more healthily, love."

"Naturally, _darling_."

"What can I call you then? Since you seem to hate all pet names."

"What about Mary?"

"But that's just your name."

"Exactly."

You laugh as she bites into another biscuit.

"So? What was the case about?"

"I haven't finished writing it yet. It takes place in a cemetery – I think I'll call it the Grave Ritual."

"Never mind! That's too gloomy for me, don't want to hear about it."

And off she hops, going upstairs to pick a book and falling into an armchair heavily with a sigh of contentment.

You spend the evening peacefully, you typing and her reading a book by Carson McCullers – you can't remember which. Outside, it's started snowing again.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Can I open the window and smoke there? It's too cold and I don't feel like going in the street..."

If her pleading voice hadn't been enough, her "puppy dog eyes attack", as she calls it, is irresistible.

"Sure. Just turn off the heating."

She nods and bounces happily to the window, putting her coat on and using her shawl as a scarf. Her figure sitting in the window frame, leaning outside to blow a bluish smoke against the nightly winter sky, catches your attention and distracts you from the case for a moment. The light of the lamp makes the snowflakes shimmer in the air and the glowing tip of Mary's cigarette flickers like a beacon in the dark.

"You're beautiful," you say.

She blinks and turns to you with bewilderment before bursting out laughing. Every time she sits there smoking at night, you find her dazzling. Always you fear she might fall.

"Don't lean out so much."

"Yes, mum."

The calm of the night is only broken intermittently by a car passing or when you resume writing on your laptop. Mary's puffs are barely audible and she plays quietly with a mimosa branch she's placed next to the window.

"You know," she says suddenly, "I think you should start posting on your blog again."

You freeze.

"What?" you ask dumbly, looking up at her in shock.

"You keep writing and writing... You've done so much research, too, investigating past investigations. Yet you don't publish it for anyone to read. You write and nobody reads you."

"You think it's useless?"

"I think it's sad."

Silence settles for a moment before she adds softly:

"And I think many people would be happy to read you again. _Because_ it is about him, your blog should live on beyond his death."

* * *

><p><em>It's all because of you that I'm through<br>It's all because of you that I'm through_

* * *

><p>Embracing the shadow of a voice, you start hearing it intertwining with yours.<p>

_"Why didn't I think of that?"_

_"Because you're stupid."_

You looked at him in shock at the time. Now you laugh as the scene replays before your eyes. A dream, then.

_"Why would I do that?"_

_"Because you're an idiot."_

An exchanged smirk – not mocking, but conniving. A connivance you've lost and which you are missing so acutely. Sherlock is no longer here to smile like this.

_"People want to know you're human."_

_"Why?"_

You try to embrace the shadow of the consulting detective before he vanishes, try to swallow his snappy question with a kiss – but already he fades away, replaced by yet another ghost.

_"Mrs. Hudson! Dr. Watson __will__ take the room upstairs."  
>"Says who?"<br>"Says the man at the door."_

That doorstep. How lucky you were to cross the threshold. Sherlock was incredible from day one: he saw you, decided you were a potential flatmate, one he would accept and who would, perhaps, accept him; then he did everything to lure you into the flat-sharing. He positively charmed you – showed you he could give you a life worth living, full of excitement and _danger_, showed you he had the power to cure you. He made you feel like a man again when you were nothing but a pathetic wreck. You could have never resisted his charms. You were bound to fall for it and you're so glad you did. You never want to forget it.

The image dissolves. Now his voice interrupts your thoughts as you're looking through the window, watching out for any police car that'd come to arrest him.

_"You're worried they're right about me."_

_"No."_

_"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."_

You turn away and look out of the window again. Why didn't you kiss him then?

_"No I'm not."_

_"Moriarty is playing with your mind too! Can't you see what's going on?"_

You only glance at him, preoccupied with the police coming to get him. To take him away from you. Why didn't you keep your eyes on him then, when it was still time? You should have taken him in your arms.

_"No, I know you're for real."_

_"A hundred per cent?" _

_"Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time."_

This time you lock eyes with him. His lips twitch with the trace of a smile, and you feel yours mirroring it. As you turn to the window again, the dreamt memories shatter and vanish once more.

_"Take my hand!"_

You grab it gladly and keep racing. At the time, you were thinking about not getting caught. If you'd been caught, though, wouldn't have Sherlock stayed alive? But at what price?

_"Now people will definitely talk."_

As if that mattered. People. Why did you ever care about them? You should never have let go of that hand.

"_I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

You freeze a second in the cemetery but then resume marching away. We never live like the person next to us might die any time - and maybe that's a good thing. But you wish you hadn't marched away that day. Nor...

"_There's something I need to do."_

"_What? Can I help?"_

"_No, on my own."_

He knew. At that time, he knew already. Didn't he? Where had he gone to? What had he done? You'll never know. You should have gone with him. Never let go of that hand. Never let go, never, never, never...

"Sherlock..."

You should have hugged him so many times. He would have hated it, probably, or would have been too dumbstruck to react anyway. But you wouldn't have cared if he hadn't reciprocated. That's what you tell yourself now anyway. You would've given everything, anything for him; and you wished he had known. Had he? Why didn't he tell you anything? Why were his last words to you blatant lies? He hadn't come to you that night. He hadn't replied anything to your horrible accusations the next day. _You machine!_

"No, no...You're not a machine. I love you... I love you. Please stay."

You fear the next scene – you can feel it in your blood already, feel it under your skin. Dread. Cold. You're scared. Your mobile rings and Bart's hospital emerges from the darkness. _No_. It really is that scene. _No no no no no..._ This is a dream. Your dream. You won't let it happen. Here, you can stop it. Here...

"_Goodbye, John."_

_NO!_ This time you are here to catch him. You fall together and by an effort of sheer will you transform the street under you into a welcoming meadow. It doesn't surprise you that crushing down to the earth doesn't hurt. The grass is warm and soft like a summer's breeze, so different from Sherlock's body against yours, icy and angular. You love the angles, but frown at the cold and start stripping him while he strips you.

"You... would never have sex with me," you let out, breathless.

"But this is your dream."

"I want you to be you, though."

"Then let me top."

You chuckle. "No way."

It starts raining. Sherlock's body gets warmer. Soon it is even burning under your hand. Your kisses are hungry, desperate, begging to be reciprocated. And because it is your dream, they are. When you enter him the heat becomes almost unbearable, the grass turns to flames – or fiery flowers, perhaps? In the distance you catch a glimpse of a sunflower. Sherlock bites down at your throat while bucking his hips. You cry out.

As you awake with a start, you gasp for air and clench the bed sheet in distress. It feels like a rock is weighing down your chest, a giant locket full of beloved memories that keep knocking you out. Against your right palm you can still feel Sherlock's buttock, his flesh, his sweat, his scent... The feel of his damp curls refuses to leave your other hand. You are haunted, physically haunted. But what breaks you the most is when the sensations begin to fade away.

By now, you are used to it. You close your eyes in resignation as your hands start to feel the sheet again. You're not drowsy enough to transmute it into another, dearer sheet, into another dream...

_Goodbye, Sherlock_.

Breathing in deeply, you become aware that you're still hard. You groan and bury you wet face into the pillow, ashamed. Mary is lying by your side and you, you... Appalled, you feel a hand on your shoulder.

"Are you crying?" Mary whispers.

You gulp.

"Did I wake you up?"

"No, I was a bit restless. Are you all right?"

You nod, a lump in your throat. She snuggles up closer and you are terrified about her reaction, but you don't want to hide your erection from her. You swallow with difficulty.

"What kind of dream was it? A bad one? A good one?"

"Both."

In the darkness, you miss the smirk forming on her lips.

"Were you topping?"

You're flabbergasted by the bluntness of her question. She bursts out laughing.

"Oh come on, I'm just curious."

"This time, yes," you grumble.

Her grin broadens. _Oh no, now she's all excited_.

"This time? So sometimes you don't?"

"Mary!"

"What? You're having erotic dreams in my bed, and they're not about me. Of course I'd be curious."

"I should really sleep on the couch," you say abruptly, standing up at once. She catches your wrist.

"John."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm despicable."

"Because you dream about the man you love?"

"But I love you, too!" you cry out, desperate. You know the confession only makes you more hateful.

Slowly, very gently, she brings you back into her arms, caressing your hair.

"I know. Don't you think there are many ways to love? And I'm not talking about love and friendship and all that bullshit. I mean... To me, we love each and every person differently. You can't put a label on it, not everything can be put into neat little boxes with names such as 'true love', 'tenderness' and whatnot. I guess if you're good with words, you can always apply a few to your relationship with someone – but just a few, special names. A certain combination. Every combination is different, like every person is different. It's all right."

"But..."

"Shh... It's fine, John. Please stop feeling so guilty. You never lied to me, never hid the fact that you loved Sherlock. I know. It's all good."

Her voice isn't the softest you've ever heard, but it has a power to soothe you like even your mother's voice never did. But suddenly you realize your crotch is pressed to her thigh. You stiffen, but she chuckles.

"Aw, he didn't take good care of you, did he? Well, you're to blame. It's your dream after all."

Her hand sneaks down and wraps around your shaft. You moan.

"Mary..."

"I have a feeling he would've taken very, very good care of you in that respect, you know..."

"You... have no idea what you're talking about..."

She nods as her hand starts pumping you skilfully. Your breathing becomes erratic.

"Mary! You don't have to..."

"It's true I never met him, so I can't be sure. I wish I had, by the way."

"Mary, please stop."

"What, I can't even touch you now?"

"No! That's not it... Of course you c... can, I..."

"Good."

She kisses you tenderly as her hand gives you the last stroke – just the right amount of pressure to make you burst with a whimper.

"I love you," you murmur against her chest.

"Never stop loving him," she murmurs back with a smile.

* * *

><p><em>I know there'll come a time again<br>When everything will fit right in  
>And I won't have to see your face<br>In strangers on the street_

* * *

><p>Relishing in the thought of completing 'the Grave Ritual' today, you type on your keyboard briskly. The sharp tick-tock of the clock snaps you out of the case you are writing about as it strikes 3 P.M. Damn, you're late again. Since you didn't work at the clinic today you just gathered information and wrote all day, completely losing track of time. Leaving your laptop, you grab your coat and run out of the flat. Your phone rings as you reach the street and you glance at the screen – Lestrade. You pick up.<p>

"Hey, Greg."

"Hello John. Is this a bad time?"

"No, not at all. I'm just in a hurry."

"Late again, are we?" the D.I. teases, a smile in his voice. You smirk.

"Why were you calling?"

"It's been a while since we haven't gone drinking. I know you're a married man, now, but..."

You roll your eyes, fairly amused.

"Next Friday, then? If nothing comes up for you, of course."

"Of course. How have you been?"

_And here we go again_, you think. Lestrade doesn't call to ask you out, he simply texts you. Whenever he calls, it is to hear your voice – in other words, to check on you.

"I'm good. More than good. Everything's fine."

"Right... Well, that's good, then. Give my best to Mrs. Watson."

"Will do. See you next Friday."

"Bye, John."

You're not late after all when you finally make it to the school. Parents and kids are everywhere, and you catch yourself wondering what it feels like to go to pick up your child at school.

"Hello, _darling_," the impish voice of your wife rang in your ears. You smirk as you turn to her.

"Hello, love." You kiss her hello promptly, only a peck - "We're in front of the kids!" she chides with a scowl.

"Do you want to take the underground?"

"Uhm... No. Let's walk and take the bus today."

Only then do you notice her faint blush and the warmth radiating from her brow.

"Are you all right? You don't have a fever, do you?"

"I'm fine. Let's go."

She takes your hand in hers and starts walking. _Take my hand!_ You smile sadly.

"You know, I've been thinking. We could go and see the elder Holmes together, if you'd like."

You stare, stunned.

"Why would we do that?"

"Because you should really speak to him again."

You groan and pull a sullen moue.

"Mrs. Hudson talked you into this."

"No! I mean, yes... Well, she told me about him, that's all! And... Isn't he the only one who can tell you about Sherlock's childhood?"

"Like he did to Jim Moriarty?" you ask bitterly.

She presses your hand in hers.

"You can talk about that, too."

You mumble something incomprehensible. She kisses you on the cheek.

"Come on, don't sulk."

"But why would you want to meet him?"

"I'm curious! Since I can't meet the other Holm..."

"Mary!"

You catch her just in time, preventing her from hitting the ground as she faints.

"Mary! God, are you all right?"

"Uh... Yeah... Sorry, just dizzy. Bit tired."

You look at her worriedly. People don't faint just because they're tired. They might when overtired or exhausted.

"I'm sorry I didn't notice, we should've taken a cab."

"Cabs freak me out now with your cases..." she mumbles.

You smile, helping her to her feet and glad to see that she can stand. Now that you really look at her face, it's true she looks tired. She did say she's been restless these past nights too.

"You'll have to do the cooking tonight," she remarks with a groggy giggle.

"I always do the cooking."

"Mmh..."

You end up taking a cab anyway and Mary doesn't complain too much. She snuggles up to you on the backseat and just rests there against your chest while you caress the nape of her neck. When you're back home, you prepare tea and cookies, but she barely drinks and doesn't eat anything.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Of course. Think we should go to the hospital, doctor?"

She sticks her tongue at you and spreads her arms so you'll come and give her a hug. You roll your eyes, but comply nonetheless.

Half an hour later she's sound asleep on the couch and you force her to go to bed, tucking her in. Then you go back to the living-room, readjusting the asphodels on the mantelpiece absentmindedly. Would Sherlock have acted even more spoiled if you had been his lover?

* * *

><p><em>But I would rather feel the sting<br>Than never to have felt a thing_

* * *

><p>Lilies. Yellow water-lilies. They don't even look strange in the living-room now – you've become so used to yellow flowers lighting up Baker Street that you barely take notice of them. You bought these water-lilies to cheer Mary up a bit. Even if she keeps saying she's fine, you wonder if she truly is. She doesn't sleep well at night and she looks overly tired. She laughed gaily when you picked her up at school with a bunch of water-lilies. Her state worried you while you were at the clinic today and you texted her often. You offered to take a full-time job at the clinic so she could rest a bit if she was tired of her job, but she was horrified at the thought of leaving her pupils and repeated heatedly: "I'm fine!"<p>

And maybe she is. You never spent the night with her before marrying her, after all; she might have always been a bad sleeper. Sherlock surely was, after all, and he was just fine. Well, as fine as a crazy, socially challenged genius can be. You smile lovingly. Every week you learn more about his life – even if it's just a fragment, a small parcel of what he's experienced. It doesn't form a mind palace, but rather some kind of archipelago: pieces of a puzzle that could only make sense embodied in the living being that was Sherlock, whose existence synthetized everything.

Now all memories, all pieces of information appear like scattered islands on a sea of mystery. You got as much as you could from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, learnt everything they ever knew about Sherlock. And as you've grown frustrated of not being able to learn more about him before he became a consulting detective, both kept telling you: "You should see Mycroft."

Perhaps you should. You want to know more, get more pieces. Islands aren't so bad after all, even if it isn't a palace – it feels like different pieces of Sherlock are given to you through the consulting detective's old cases, his addiction to cocaine... but his uni days are missing. Everything he did before he invented his unique job for himself is unknown to you – and you desperately wish to know. Add more islands, link them together in a better, more appropriate way... Because you know you're merely reconstructing Sherlock. His mind and body are no longer here to make sense of all those pieces of him; only your mind and body remain. All you can do is recreate an image of him. You're aware that this may be somewhat artificial, because you mix in your love and pining for him, and those were never part of the original picture. You are the one who provides the flow that links all the pieces, now that Sherlock is dead.

But even if you're changing Sherlock a bit, he's changed you too, and he keeps changing you. The world has been transfigured since his death. _Your_ everyday life experiences have been transfigured – the way your brain automatically links things together in such a manner that it brings you back to Sherlock, always.

As you start drowsing off in your armchair, the grinning skull on the mantelpiece transforms. It is the proud flag of a pirates' ship sailing on raging waters among hidden islands that emerge from the mist. At the prow, imperious, stands a little boy with a three-cornered hat and rebellious black curls. All of a sudden cannon fire fill the air and soon the sea is full of flames that dance in the wind. Explosions set the ocean alight, merging the sky and the sea together. As everything is swept away by a gigantic whirl of foam and blaze, you catch the little boy in your arms – and together, you fall.

* * *

><p><em>I'll always know you were the one<br>To rip me from the ground_

* * *

><p>On Tuesdays you and Mary always arrive home around the same time after work. You usually meet her at the door downstairs, or just as she is about to enter the living-room. Today it is the latter and you're surprised to find her looking gleefully at a basket full of appetizing red apples. In fact, she is about to bite into one happily when a sudden sense of dread dawns on you and you cry out:<p>

"Don't!"

She turns and looks down at you as you run up the stairs.

"Hey, John. What's wrong?"

You swiftly take the apple from her hand, then drop it with a start.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" she exclaims. You stop her from picking up the apple.

"Poison."

"What?"

"They're poisoned! Haven't you been following the news?"

She stares.

"Are you all right, John?"

"Oh don't give me that look! I know what I'm saying. The Snow White case, or the Evil Queen, or whatever they called it..."

"But that's been over for months! There haven't been any murders for almost a year."

"Less than that."

She shrugs.

"Why in the world would anyone want to target me? I'm not young and beautiful like the previous victims."

"Not all were young," you point out grimly, opening the door. "And you're beautiful." She rolls her eyes and bends to pick up the apple.

"No!"

"John, for God's sake!"

"Some poison work on skin contact!"

"Then shouldn't we both be dead by now?" she asks sarcastically, clearly annoyed.

"Just come in and wash your hands. Please."

She sighs in exasperation, but follows you inside.

"Why do you eat stuff you find on your doorstep without knowing where they're from?"

"I'm sure Mrs. Hudson put them there! God, John, nobody has the key except her, and you don't find poisoned apples on your doorstep every day!"

"You don't find apples from an unknown origin on your doorstep every day," you snap. "Don't you think she would've left a note if it were Mrs. Hudson?"

She shrugs.

"Let's just go down and ask her."

And so you do. The good landlady seems surprised at the question and denies having put any apples in front of your door. You pale.

"Nobody rang at the door either," Mrs. Hudson adds.

"John is convinced they're poisoned. That's stupid," Mary grumbles sullenly, upset that you've prevented her from eating something that was already making her mouth water. "I'm not Sherlock, you know. There's no mad criminal mastermind after me and I don't have enemies who'd bother sending me bloody poisoned apples."

She's right to some extent. There's no reason anyone would be targeting her as Mary Morstan – but as your wife? Why would anyone care now, though? Sherlock is dead. Targeting you can no longer get to him.

Yet you have a bad feeling about this. There is something unsettling to the picture of Mary about to bite into a red apple in front of your door, something that terrifies you for some reason. Your face darkens.

"There's somewhere we have to go."

* * *

><p><em>It's all because of you that I'm through<br>It's all because of you that I'm through_

* * *

><p>Checking the time on your mobile, you think she might still be there.<p>

"Go where?"

"At the mortuary."

"What? At this hour?" Mrs. Hudson asks, obviously worried about your state of mind.

Mary is just staring, disbelieving.

"I want to ask Molly to check this apple for poison."

"You're kidding me."

"But that's not her job!" Mrs. Hudson points out.

"Let's go. Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

Now Mary understands you're serious and she stops complaining. You take a cab to Bart's and text Molly to wait for you – you meet her in front of the mortuary.

"John! It's been a while." Then she sees your wife and smiles at her: "Oh, hello Mary. How have you been doing?"

"Good, until John went bonkers," Mary retorts playfully. Molly smiles.

"What do you need my help for?"

"Do you think you could take this to one of the labs and have someone analyse it for poison?" you ask.

She blinks.

"Yes, I guess I can try to do that tomorrow... You think someone tried to poison you?"

"Or Mary. I don't know. It's just... red apples. We found them on our doorstep when we came back home today, and they're not from Mrs. Hudson."

Molly seems concerned at the news – finally, someone is taking you seriously.

"Sherlock is dead. There's no reason anyone would want to target us," you concede. "Maybe I'm just imagining things and panicking for nothing, but... You know. Old habits die hard."

Molly nods with a sympathizing smile, but there is still worry in her eyes.

"Of course. I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Molly."

After you've taken your leave and Molly has promised to call tomorrow, you turn to Mary with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry about this. But I'd rather be too careful than not enough."

"I'd love to get to know Molly more," Mary replies, brushing off your apology. "We didn't get to talk much last time she came for tea with her boyfriend – what's his name again?"

"Shinwell."

"Right."

She takes your hand in hers.

"I'd like to see them more often. Let's invite them for dinner next time."

"Sure," you answer with a smile.

"Now, since you denied me my apple, you'd better make something good for dinner. I'm starving."

"Shall I take you out, then?"

"Really?" she asks, sparkles in her eyes. You laugh.

"What about Italian food?"

"That'd be great! Wait... Are you going to bring me to Stephano's or something? The restaurant you went to with Sherlock the first day you met?"

"It's Angelo's, and it was the second day. But we can go somewhere else, if you'd like..."

"No no no!" She beams. "Angelo's is perfect!" She lets go of your hand and walks on with a leaping gait, humming "Pasta, pasta!" You smirk, shaking your head.

Angelo's face lights up when you go into the restaurant, but then he freezes upon seeing Mary.

"Oh, you're with a lady today! And she's not your sister, is she?"

You smile, a little embarrassed.

"Actually, she's my wife."

He goggles.

"Your wife? I had no idea you got married!"

"Well..."

"Hello, I'm Mary," she greets, extending a hand Angelo shakes heartily.

"That's great, that's great," he comments with a little too much enthusiasm to be completely sincere. "I'll definitely get you a candle tonight!"

"You were right to bring one the first night too," Mary remarks quietly. Angelo looks at her for a moment, surprise in his eyes. Then he gives her a warm smile.

"I'll be right back with the menus."

You take the table by the window, like that night when you didn't actually eat anything because you ran after a cabbie.

"Is this where you sat?" she inquires.

You smile, and nod in silence. The evening flies by – the food is great, as expected. Mary seems to be delighted. She eats twice as much as you do, under Angelo's approving gaze.

"I'll pay tonight," you tell him once you're done eating. He frowns.

"It's on the house."

"Angelo, I – "

"He never brought anyone else here, you know," he interrupts, his tone wistful. "Doesn't matter what you were to him – to me, you're like his family. His only family. You weren't just his date."

Mary looks at her plate sheepishly, a faint blush creeping up her face. She puffs out her cheeks, which is always a sign that determination is building in her, and blurts out:

"Then I'm paying! I've eaten most of the food anyway. And I never met that Sherlock bloke, so you can't use it as an excuse!"

She grins triumphantly. But Angelo still refuses and threatens to throw you out so you eventually give up.

"Thank you, Angelo," you tell him earnestly as you leave, shaking his hand.

"Anytime, John. It's not like Sherlock had many friends, so it's not going to break the bank."

He winks, and you can't help but chuckle at his practical logic.

* * *

><p><em>It's all because of you that I'm through<br>It's all because of you ..._

* * *

><p>Knitting on the couch, Mary has fallen asleep. She's been doing that a lot lately. Then again, she did have a lot to eat. You smirk.<p>

Out of the window it is snowing again. It feels good to be home, warm and cosy. Perhaps it's time.

Opening your laptop, you go on the internet and type your blog's address. It's still there, just as you left it. You brush the keyboard with your fingers thoughtfully. And then, as if you'd never stopped, you naturally click on _New post_. A smile is floating on your lips – a smile for a dead man. Your fingers dance on the keyboard, typing the title which imposes itself with blinding clarity.

_**Sherlock**_

* * *

><p><em>… that I'm through <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	34. Ad libitum

**A/N: **In this chapter there are references to _The Mustgrave Ritual _by Arthur Conan Doyle and to _A__ Passage to India _by E.M. Forster. You may want to know that a riddle is mentioned in _The Mustgrave ritual_, that speaks of the sun, the shadow, an oak and an elm; and that Mr. Fielding, Mr. Heaslop, the Collector, Ronny, Lesley, the Major, and Mrs. Turton, are all characters from _A passage to India_. ;)

Hope you enjoy reading! As always, reviewers are loved.

Edit: This chapter was kindly betaed by MusicWritesMyLife. All oddities that remain are my responsibility - it means I did not listen to her advice when I should have ;)

**...**

********Nutrisco et extinguo:**** ****"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_  
><em>

** _Ad libitum_ ** **: ** _"At one's pleasure"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXXIII: Ad libitum<strong>

_Let go, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Hey, I'll move out of the way for you<em>  
><em>Hey, I'll move out of the way for her too<em>  
><em>I never thought we'd end up here in separate cages<em>  
><em>It doesn't go like this<em>  
><em>You left out some pages<em>

* * *

><p>White petals are falling. Mary stirs, then tightly shuts her eyes, trying to fall back to sleep. But she can feel the petals slowly burying her under a white coat of flowers; and she does not like the idea. Annoyed, she shakes them away. To no avail. Eventually she snaps and sits up, eyes wide open and ready to shout at someone.<p>

But there's no one. Around her, endlessly, white petals are falling. What am I doing here? she wonders. Carefully, she stands and takes a step. The ground is soft under her feet, and surprisingly it is this detail that makes her realize she is dreaming.

She frowns. She never liked white. Concentrating, she tries to turn the petals into yellow flowers at least, but fails. She shrugs and keeps walking.

Funny that apple blossom would start falling as early as April, she muses, as if time and seasons in her dream were linked to reality. As she gropes her way through the never-ending whiteness, she notices a faint sound filling the air. Something like a soft breath, perhaps, regular. Bestowing a semblance of life on the spring-less scenery. For some reason it reassures Mary. She starts looking for the person breathing there, everywhere.

"John!" she calls. "John!" John?

Is it? She begins to feel fear. "John?" Her steps quicken. Unwittingly, she starts running. "John!"

Suddenly she becomes aware of how cold the petals are against her skin – almost burning. "John!" They feel like rain now, too violent to be snow, not clear enough to be hail. She hates them, and only wishes they would change colour. She hates this horrible whiteness, falling, falling, slowly swallowing her. "JOHN!"

"John."

She freezes. The voice that has spoken is not familiar to her, yet she already knows to whom it belongs. Refusing to turn, she closes her eyes. Her hands start trembling.

"John."

She starts as a hand comes to rest on her shoulder, pressing against it lightly. Her eyes snap open and spontaneously she turns towards the voice. She meets blue eyes, pale skin, black curls. Tentatively, she brings her hand to his face.

Her hand? Her eyes widen. Before she can even touch the white face, she sees her hand – and it isn't her hand. It is wider, darker, hairier. A man's. She steps back with horror, but Sherlock catches her – him? – and leans in for a desperate kiss. Mary can feel his lips on hers.

She screams.

A gasp – now she is awake. Isn't she?

Frozen, she lies in bed a moment, then starts trembling. Scowling at no one, she purses her lips stubbornly.

_Get a grip, girl_.

All of a sudden John wakes at her side with a gasp. Surprised at first, Mary cannot help smiling. Tenderness fills her chest. _God, our nights are so fucked up_.

She turns to John, reaching for him. But John doesn't see her and turns to the other side, reaching for a shirt he does not find. He doesn't see her, and turns his back on her.

Mary's hand hangs in mid-air as John seems to remember that there is no shirt, and no owner of it anywhere in the world.

Slowly, his arms curl up and he embraces emptiness, burying his face and his tears in a non-existent chest.

Slowly, Mary's hand falls back on the whiteness of the mattress.

_"_Mrs. Watson!"

Mary's attention snaps back from the white sheet on her desk to the pupil addressing her.

_"_Yes, Tom?" she asks with a smile. _God, what am I doing daydreaming in class?_ To be fair, the kids were supposed to have gone home by now. But she has to admit that all day long, she hasn't been very focused on what she was doing. Even now as she listens to the boy and answers him, half of her mind is elsewhere; searching a whiteness silent as a tomb.

It's been a week now. The boy keeps talking. A week since her periods should have begun. He grins at her and laughs. Should she be concerned? This is ridiculous. Tom starts walking towards the door. Maybe she should be concerned. She hasn't been feeling so well lately.

_"_Goodbye, Tom. See you tomorrow!"

Even cigarettes don't make her feel any better. And if this is what she thinks... She groans. She definitely doesn't want to give up smoking. Not now.

As she pushes open the door to their flat, she remembers that tonight John will come back home late. Which means it is her turn to prepare dinner. Another groan – something else she doesn't want to do. Still, for John's sake, she decides to give it a try and opens the fridge to see what she can make.

But the mere sight of food repulses her and she closes the door just as quickly. Damn this all.

Maybe some music will help her relax and get a grip. There was that song she heard at Mrs. Hudson's the other day, something from an opera. What was it called again? She frowns as she tries to remember. Something about the moon. Something...

Oh, she'll just google it. She types "song moon" and there it is, at the bottom of the page. _Rusalka, Song to the Moon – Dvorak. _She plays it.

The pristine voice fills the air and Mary wonders why she likes this song so much. It's not her type. At all. And it isn't as if she understands the lyrics. Yet there's something strong and powerful to it, something that fills her chest with an almost unbearable warmth. Not just her chest. Her gut, too.

She turns away and opens one of the living-room windows. To get some air – it's still cool this month. The voice keeps weaving something unspeakable into the air. Mary always liked music – various kinds. She would've liked to learn to play the guitar, but never really got the chance. Her parents thought it wasn't a "serious" instrument. Idiots. She looks up to the pale April sky and inhales deeply. Maybe she should learn to play the guitar.

She turns back to the flat and her gaze meets two empty holes. She stares at the skull.

_"_You're not really white," she remarks out loud. "I kind of like you." Leaning against the wall, she lets out a sigh. "Do you think John kept you because he liked you or because you were Sherlock's?" The skull remains silent. "Right. _Obviously_." She smirks at the grinning face before sitting to mark some papers.

It's already dark out when Mary decides she should do something about dinner. Stretching, she mentally lists all the kinds of food she can think of, dismissing each of them in turn. Finally she stops and grins. Well. That doesn't sound bad.

_You can always tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle. _

Mary has really tried, but she still has no idea what that can possibly mean. Anyhow, it doesn't matter, she concludes as she pushes the door open. This restaurant is good, period. She doesn't really care to know why.

Her eyes scan the menus displayed on the wall above the counter. She and John came a few times together, and Mary liked it a lot. But today nothing is to her liking. She sighs.

_"_Wow, that sure sounded desperate."

She blinks and turns to the stranger who has just spoken. He's rather tall, blond, with brown eyes. Good looking. He smiles.

_"_Don't like the menu?"

_"_I love the menu," she retorts. "Just... not today."

_"_Oh. Well, that's a pity. Would you like to go somewhere else?"

_"_... You came to a Chinese takeaway to hit on girls?"

_"_No. I came to a Chinese takeaway because I'm a lonely bachelor who felt like eating Chinese."

_"_Let me guess, now you feel like eating something else."

A smirk lights up his face.

_"_Maybe."

Mary allows herself to smile back, then turns back to the menu.

_"_Well, too bad. I'll order Chinese. I'll have the Szechuan Beef with the House special rice please."

_"_What?" the stranger stammered. "But–"

_"_Not for me."

He arches an eyebrow and Mary holds her hand up to show him her ring.

_"_Aw, real one?"

_"_Real one."

They remain silent as Mary waits for her order, but the man does not leave. Eventually when Mary gets her food, he speaks again:

_"_And of course, you're faithful?"

_"_Unfortunately, yes."

She sticks her tongue out at him before leaving the restaurant.

_Unfortunately. Unfortunately for whom? _

* * *

><p><em>Hey, when was the last time you laughed<em>  
><em>And did you mean it when you did?<em>  
><em>I'm just wondering<em>  
><em>There's sorrow in your voice, it's abounding<em>  
><em>It's astounding how you live so close to your cure<em>

* * *

><p>The water of the shower is hot on her skin. Not that she's really cold.<p>

John liked the food, though he worried about her not being hungry. He made her eat something in the end.

She smiles. John is so kind. So protective. He was right about the apples: Molly told them they had been poisoned. John reported it to Lestrade, but they found nothing. At the time Mary thought his reaction was ridiculous and annoying, but in hindsight she finds it incredibly sweet. John truly is a hero.

But how did he know? Instinct, he said. Mary didn't believe him. She still doesn't. There was something in John – something Sherlock had left him. Not deductive skills, naturally. But... something. Something Mary cannot quite put her finger on.

But is it only one thing?

Mary winces and brings her hand to her breasts. They're swollen. She told John it was because her period was coming soon. That was three days ago.

Fortunately she's been feeling sleepy early in the evening these days, and at night when they wake up because of nightmares, John is always too engrossed for any other activity. Even if they hug, he doesn't realize; even though he's a doctor.

And Mary can't even hate him for it.

This is getting out of hand. And yet... and yet.

She rests her brow against the warm bathroom's tiles. Her face feels wet and warm.

When she comes back into the living-room in her fluffy white bathrobe, hair wrapped in a towel, John is typing on his laptop. About Sherlock, of course. John has resumed writing his blog, and the hit counter has gone up again. Mary smiles.

As if on cue, John turns to her and smiles back.

"Hello there," he says. Frowning a little, he adds: "You look terribly tired. Do you still have work to do for tomorrow?"

"Nope."

She comes to sit next to him. He moves his chair closer and spontaneously kisses her on the cheek in a surge of affection.

"Would you like to watch a movie, then? That German one you wanted to see must be lying around somewhere."

"No, I'm good. I'd rather read tonight."

She stands, kisses John on the forehead, and slumps into the armchair, opening the novel she's currently reading. _A Passage to India_.

While she's reading about the life of Adela Quested, John is typing on his laptop about Sherlock. Some French poet said once that love wasn't looking each other in the eye, but looking in the same direction.

Mr. Fielding is saying he believes to be innocent. John keeps writing, the sound his fingers make on the keys filling the room. The Collector is now accusing Mr. Fielding of having insulted Mr. Heaslop. Ronny is almost crying. John stops typing a second, as if groping for the right words, then resumes his activity. Now Mr. Fielding is looking at Marabar Hills. He's feeling miserable. He feels he's failed his life; Mary is wondering what happened at Marabar Hills. John is typing. What's that case about, again? Oh yes. Something about a riddle and the disappearance of a live-in help and a household manager. Something about the sun and the shadow. And John is still typing. Mr. Fielding is thinking he ought to have been working at something else all this time. Something about an oak, and an elm, perhaps. Mary wonders whether Adela truly was assaulted and by whom. John keeps typing. _What shall we give for it?_ said the riddle. _All that is ours._ Mr. Fielding feels like he has nothing. Mary feels like John has everything already. Something about the sun, something about the shadow, the oak, and the elm... Everything about Sherlock.

Mary doesn't hear the thump of her book as it falls to the floor. She does feel the warm pair of arms wrapping around her and carrying her to bed. The arms are truly holding her, and no one else. The man to whom they belong truly does love her. But he writes about something else. Something about a riddle, something about a ritual... Everything, always about Sherlock.

* * *

><p><em>I never know what to do with my love<em>  
><em>I never know what to do with my hands<em>  
><em>So I put them behind my back<em>  
><em>I put them behind my back<em>  
><em>Behind my back<em>

* * *

><p>Mary throws the stick into the bin with exasperation. The <em>fifth<em> stick. Damn it.

She runs a hand through her hair, exhausted. Her gaze falls on the little red + sign. The fifth one.

Oh well. Picking up the bin bag, she hurries out and puts it in a bin liner with the rest of the rubbish where John won't find it. She doesn't want him to find out that way.

"I'm home!"

Well, that was just in time, she muses.

"Hello darling."

John turns to her with surprise, arching his eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

Mary blinks. "Nothing's wrong."

"You just called me darling."

She tilts her head to the side, then bursts out laughing.

"I did, didn't I? Ha ha, that's hilarious!"

"Is it?" He's frowning slightly now, so Mary goes up to him and kisses him to assuage him.

"It is. I must be terribly tired."

"You do look tired."

John holds her gently and looks her in the eye.

"Mary, have you been sick?"

"No."

"Are you depressed?"

"_Depressed_? What in the world, John?!"

"You keep listening to this song," he says, waving his hand in the air at the music playing. "It's beautiful, but you must admit it isn't the happiest song you've ever heard."

"So... You think I'm depressed because I listen to an opera song you find depressing."

"I didn't say that!"

"But that's what you mean."

"Well..."

She smiles. "I'm not depressed. And I don't find this song depressing. But if you don't like it, I can stop listening to it when you're around."

She turns to stop the music, but John catches her by the wrist. "No. I like it too. It's just that... You're not happy."

Slowly, Mary wraps her arms around John and rests her head on his shoulder. "You don't know what you're saying."

John kisses her throat.

"Do you know what she's saying?" he asks, referring to the lyrics.

Mary smiles.

"No idea."

They chuckle and hug each other tighter.

"Don't move. It's cosy," she grumbles.

They stay like this for a moment. John strokes her hair.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"Mmh... Let's have cake."

"What?"

"I feel like having cake."

"But we don't have cake."

"Well, then, let's bake some!"

John shakes his head as Mary slips away, hopping to the kitchen. She turns off the music on the way.

* * *

><p><em>Hey, don't you know what I need when I say<em>  
><em>Hey, see it in my face, I'm breaking<em>  
><em>I've waited for so long<em>  
><em>Just to know<em>  
><em>That you'd wrap yourself around me if you couldn't let go<em>

* * *

><p>Naturally, she stops smoking. And naturally, everybody makes a fuss about it.<p>

"You stopped smoking?" Cathy exclaims, disbelieving. "Don't tell me you're pregnant!"

Her tone is teasing, perhaps a little mocking. She's joking. Mary shrugs.

"Don't be stupid. John just kept insisting. You know, him being a doctor and all."

"Seriously? God, you're smitten."

"Oh well. Got to make concessions when you're married."

"You didn't make any concessions for me," Cathy remarks with a pout. Mary laughs.

"We didn't really have time to get to that stage now, did we?"

Cathy sighs dramatically.

"Are you trying to have a baby?"

"What the... No, I'm not! We're not!"

"What, are you saying there's no chance? Seriously, do you guys even–"

"Don't be stupid. Of course we do."

As she goes back to Baker Street, Mary realizes she should stop drinking too. She groans. Her behaviour really is going to become suspicious to those who know her. Even to...

"You stopped smoking?" John exclaims, disbelieving.

Mary grins.

"Yep! No more cigarettes for me. Aren't you happy?"

"Of course I am. But why all of a sudden?"

Mary leans against the wall, looking out the window as she usually does when she opens it to smoke at night. She doesn't open it tonight. In place of a cigarette, she brings a mug of herbal tea to her lips.

"I've always wanted to play the guitar," she says.

John smiles tenderly.

"And so you stopped smoking?" he asks.

She seems to come out of her reverie and furrows her brow.

"What? No!"

He chuckles and leans to kiss her, aiming for the cheekbone – Mary has dimples when she makes that lovely moue of hers, which John finds adorable. But she turns her head at the last moment and his lips land on her temple.

"Oh, you..."

She sticks her tongue at him and escapes to the armchair, grabbing her book and curling up into a ball.

"Those swine are always on the lookout for a grievance," Lesley is saying. The Major is tittering. "His beauty's gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril..." Mrs. Turton cries:"They ought to be ground into the dust!" Mary groans. They're noisy. All so noisy. She buries her face into the pillow. The moon is full again, shining over the Ganges. Threads of silver are looking into her window. Mary is rushing through Central India on a moonlit train, sliding swiftly into the night. She'd like to see more of it. More of it all. Nimbly, she sneaks out of the window and onto the roof.

It's cold out. Invigorating. Mary grins.

"Good evening."

She turns towards the voice.

"Oh."

Mary looks at the tall, dark figure standing on the train a few steps away from her.

"Are you here for a duel to the death?" she asks, only half playfully.

"No," Sherlock replies. He looks up to the sky. "I'm here to watch the moon." He glances at her with a small smile. "Like you."

Mary blinks. "You like the moon?"

"I can appreciate it."

"Ah."

They look up and watch the moon. Its halo of light gives it a cottony feel. It looks protected.

"Did it hurt?" Mary asks.

"What?"

"The fall."

Sherlock's face shines under the moon. Mary thinks even John never saw him looking so alive. She feels privileged.

"Do you mean the landing?" Sherlock inquires lightly.

Mary stares.

"I don't quite remember the landing. But I remember that it hurt before."

Something tightens somewhere in Mary's chest, and she doesn't know why. She finds him beautiful. They're so close, standing together on this train's roof. Yet there is a gulf between them. Mary looks back at the moon.

"You saw me, tonight," she says before the dream starts fading away. Everything tips over in a swirl of colours and silvery streams. Dizziness. Everything goes black. A fall. Mary's eyes open to the whiteness of the sheet.

She thinks she heard Sherlock say something before she slipped away. "_He loves you, you know_." She pouts. _I really don't want to hear that from you of all people_.

Just a second after her, John wakes up with a gasp. Mary smirks. Weird, to know that they're dreaming about the same man. She's about to open her mouth for some banter when she sees that John's face is shining. Not like Sherlock's did. Something breaks somewhere in Mary's chest, and she represses a groan. _These guys are going to kill me, I swear_.

Carefully, she snuggles up closer to John, and wraps her arms around his heaving chest.

* * *

><p><em>I never know what to do with my love<em>  
><em>I never know what to do with my hands<em>  
><em>So I put them behind my back<em>  
><em>I put them behind my back<em>  
><em>Behind my back<em>

* * *

><p>"I met a very handsome guy today in front of a guitar shop," Mary declares, her mouth still half full of pastries Mrs. Hudson has baked for tea.<p>

Her landlady stops pouring the tea and stares.

"He was nice. Though of course I wasn't interested in him. I was interested in the guitars."

"We have a guest today," Mrs. Hudson tells her, not knowing what to say about guitars or nice guys chatting you up about it.

Mary's eyes light up.

"You got him to come? Really?"

"Look at you, now, all excited."

"Of course I am!"

"Please behave."

Mary nods, a big grin splattered on her tired face. She's glad she wore her salmon-coloured dungarees today. When the doorbell rings, she's almost ready to pounce. But Mrs. Hudson gives her a look, and so she settles for jumping to her feet. The landlady goes to open the door.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

"Hello Mycroft. I'm happy you could make it today."

The tall man comes in. Mary is beaming.

"Hello! I'm Mary," she says, extending her hand. Mycroft shakes it perfunctorily.

"Mrs. Watson. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Mary. I'm not going to call you Mr. Holmes. Too awkward."

"...I see. Well. Mary, then." She rather likes the amused smile playing on the man's lips. "I brought some scones," Mycroft continues, putting the bag on the table.

"Oh, you shouldn't have gone through the trouble," Mrs. Hudson replies.

"I really did not."

Mrs. Hudson rolls her eyes and goes to put the scones on a plate. Mycroft turns to Mary.

"So. You wish to know more about Sherlock, I heard."

"Not quite," Mary answers, mimicking his form of speech. "John would, though," she adds more seriously, looking Mycroft in the eye.

"Is that so? Then I wonder why it isn't him sitting here in your place."

Mary frowns.

"Aren't you happy to meet me?"

"Well, it certainly is a pleasure," he retorts, smiling thinly. Mary shakes her head and sighs.

"I don't see _you_ making a lot of efforts to see him."

"Considering that the last time I did, your husband pointed a loaded gun at me, I fail to see how I could be perceived as the hostile one here."

Mary bursts out laughing. "I bet you're not used to it! People pointing a gun at you." Her laughter quiets down. "John is full of surprises, isn't he?"

"He is. Did _you_ get used to it?"

They exchange a look. Mrs. Hudson comes back with the scones and a third cup.

"John described you well," Mary comments as she grabs a scone.

"Did he?"

"_Insufferable_," she says with an impish smile. Mycroft smirks back.

"I can tell you never met my brother."

"Actually, I did."

Mycroft freezes. Mrs. Hudson almost drops her cup of tea.

"In dreams," Mary adds. Discreetly Mycroft starts breathing freely again, and Mrs. Hudson gives the young woman a pained look. Mary doesn't notice either of them.

"How was he?" Mycroft inquires, taking a sip of tea.

"He was nice."

"Then I'm afraid it wasn't him, Mrs. Watson."

"Mary."

"Mary," Mycroft corrects obligingly. "If it isn't to talk about Sherlock, then, I am not sure of what help I could be."

"Of no help at all," she answers with a grin. "I just wanted to meet you. To meet a Holmes, of course – I've heard so much about you two that I was getting frustrated. But I wanted to meet you especially."

Mycroft arches an eyebrow.

"You have to talk to John again," Mary tells him.

The elder Holmes's mouth twists into a slightly bitter smile. "Have I been forgiven, then?" he asks sarcastically. Mary ignores his tone.

"No. He hasn't forgiven you." She brings her cup to her lips and takes a sip. "He never will."

Both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson stare at her. Mary looks down at her cup of tea.

"He hasn't forgiven himself, either," she says quietly. "And he never will." She bites into a scone decidedly. "But," she goes on, "he can stand living with himself. I'm sure he'd stand seeing you again."

Mycroft chuckles, and Mary isn't sure whether it is because of her, or at her. She ignores that too. "I like your scones."

They keep talking for an hour or so. Then Mycroft stands, saying he has to go. Mary decides she should go as well, and Mrs. Hudson sees them to her door. After she has closed it, though, Mycroft turns to Mary. His gaze makes her stop on the first step of the staircase.

"You should tell him, you know," he says simply.

Mary's eyes widen a little, but soon her face breaks into a cheeky grin.

"Tell him that you're sorry and would love to speak to him again? Sure, Mycroft. Will do."

And with these words she runs up the stairs.

* * *

><p><em>Can I move out of the way tomorrow?<em>

* * *

><p>Less than an hour later, someone knocks on the door of the flat. Mary looks up from her book at John, and he looks up at her from his laptop. The staring contest goes on until he finally gives up and goes to open the door. It is Mrs. Hudson.<p>

"Oh, hello John! Mary, dear, you forgot something when you came for tea."

"Did I?"

Mrs. Hudson hands her a bag. The one in which Mycroft brought the scones. Mary furrows her brow, confused, but takes it nonetheless. She realizes there is something inside, and catches the twinkle in her landlady's eyes.

"I wonder if it's been forgotten on purpose," she says enigmatically. "Well, good night to you two!"

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson," John says before turning to his wife. "What was this all about?"

Entranced, Mary takes out of the bag what Mycroft evidently left behind quite willingly. A notebook.

"What–"

"This is it," she says, mesmerized. "This is it, John!"

"What?"

"The thing you really wanted from Mycroft!"

"From My... God Mary, you met _Mycroft_? At Mrs. Hudson's?" John sounds both disbelieving and very annoyed. Mary frowns.

"Should I have asked for your permission?"

"No, of course not. You can do whatever you want. Fraternize with whomever you want."

"John!" she exclaims, now quite angry herself. This seems to calm John down a bit.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Really sorry. I never actually asked you whether you felt like meeting him or not. I... It didn't even cross my mind."

Gently, Mary comes and snuggles up to him, kissing him on the temple. "It's fine. You know me. I was just curious."

She is very grateful to John when he wraps his arms around her tenderly and pays no attention to the notebook she is holding. Mary knows John wants this notebook badly. But she also knows that right now, he is only thinking of her, and how to make it up to her. She smiles.

"Here," she says, stepping back and handing him the notebook. "He didn't give it to me directly, probably because he knew I wouldn't have accepted it and would have told him to give it to you himself."

John takes the notebook and Mary goes to look out the window. It's nighttime already. It's comfortable. It feels like home. This. The flat. The living-room. Her, sprawled in the armchair, reading. John, by her side, typing on his computer about Sherlock. Fleetingly Mary thinks of guitars and a Chinese take-away. She closes her eyes.

"John."

"Mmh?"

"There's something I must tell you."

Her tone appears to alert him, for he puts down the notebook at once and comes to her.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, resting his brow on hers. Mary shakes her head.

"Nothing's wrong."

She wraps her arms around his waist and pushes him back a little to allow some space between them. Then, looking him in the eye:

"John. Let's get a divorce."

* * *

><p><em>Can I move into the way tonight? <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	35. Genius loci

**A/N: **Thank you all for your patience – but you'll notice today's chapter is much longer than usual. I'll have to work on that, I know. A special thanks to those of you who take the time to review; I really appreciate it! I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

The sentence beginning with "We reach. We grasp. […]" is a quote from Arthur Conan Doyle's _The Adventure of the Retired Colourman_;they are Sherlock's words.

**...**

****Nutrisco et extinguo:**** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

**_Genius loci:_** the protective spirit of a place.

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXXIV: Genius loci<strong>

_Keep warm, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Eyes on the prize and I can't capsize this time<br>'cause there's somebody else in my boat_

* * *

><p><em>Poisoned. They were poisoned. <em>

You jump, startled by the clip of scissors. Your head snaps up. You see Mary cutting flower heads from a bouquet in a vase, and putting them to float on water. But something isn't right. The flowers aren't yellow. _Red_. A dream, then.

Suddenly you feel a pair of hands wrapping around your neck. It could have been to strangle you, and perhaps it is. You feel your heartbeats accelerating and close your eyes. Maybe you're scared. Or maybe you're already irreversibly aroused by the scent of those hands and the curls you now feel against the skin of you left ear and cheek.

The sound of a vase crashing down to the floor, shattered.

There is glass and water and shards tinged in red – flowers or blood, you can't be sure. And always the feel of his skin against yours. "Goodbye, John." Something is falling. A red apple from a tree.

And just like that you are awake, without even a gasp. Something fell, but you're not sure what. Repressing a sigh, you slip out of bed silently and escape to the living-room.

You've been terribly worried about Mary since someone left poisoned apples on your doorstep. Because they truly were poisoned.

_"_They can't possibly be poisoned, John. This must have been some kind of joke, you're taking the matter too seriously!" Mary had said before you got the results from Molly. You'd had the very bad idea to express some concern.

_"_Why would anyone leave red apples in a basket on our doorstep, then? Enlighten me."

You'd snapped. You shouldn't have. Mary had nothing to do with this after all.

_"_Oh, I see. Playing detective again, are we?"

_"_I'm really not. Look, Mary–"

_"_You only miss the thrill! You want danger in your life, I know. But there's nothing dangerous, nobody's trying to kill me, John, I'm not Sherlock!"

Her words had hit you right in the face. Maybe because there was some truth in it. Nonetheless, you know something isn't right. Something _is_ going on. Something like when Sherlock was alive.

The argument with Mary ended just like that, and when you got the results from Molly, she made no comments. She seemed to be elsewhere. It was better if she didn't worry too much anyway. You worry enough for the two of you.

Since then, you never stopped thinking about it. It has become your obsession – together with Sherlock, of course. It might well be one and the same.

* * *

><p><em>Used to live alone in a tomb I made my own<em>

* * *

><p><em>"<em>There must be a connection between the victims but we can't find it," Lestrade told you when you asked about the Snow White Case. There hadn't been any victims for months now anyway. The police considered there would be no more murders. "Surely there must be a connection."

_"_Wrong."

_"_What?"

_"_Maybe there isn't."

_"_Maybe there isn't what?"

_"_A connection."

Lestrade had blinked.

_"_Then why?"

_"_Maybe this is a game."

_"_John... Sherlock is gone."

Why can't they just understand that something is wrong with these apples you received? This isn't about Sherlock. This is, in fact, about you. About Mary. What if you had arrived too late? What if she had bitten into one of these apples? Every time you think of it, it makes you terrified and furious all at once. You're worried. You're terribly worried that something will happen to her.

So you decided to take measures yourself.

* * *

><p><em>But now I've gone and given up my coat <em>

* * *

><p><em>"<em>Hello."

_"_Hel... Oh."

Shinwell jumped to his feet when he recognized you. He hadn't been too hard to find – asking the Baker Street Irregulars, whose name you still did not know, had turned out to be easier than you'd thought.

_"_Dr. Watson," he said uneasily. "What can I do for you?"

_"_How's Molly?"

_"_Good... She's good." He scratched his head.

_"_Let's have a drink?" you offered.

_"_But I'm dressed like–"

_"_It doesn't matter."

He nodded meekly, and so you went.

_"_I need to know," you said after a while as he was taking a sip of his beer, "if you've heard anything the police do not know about the Snow White case."

_"_The Snow White case? That's old, man." You glared. "Fine, fine! Don't look at me like that. I know you got a basket full of red apples in front of your door."

_"_How do you know that?"

_"_Molly."

_"_Oh. Right. Go on."

He shifted a bit on his seat. "I also know it was a young lad who left them there, but we couldn't catch him."

_"_You... _what?_"

_"_The bloke keeping one eye on 221B saw a young lad come out of a car with a basket, go in, and come back not a minute later. But he left with the car before we could do anything."

_"_Wait a minute. Our flat is under surveillance?"

Only then did Shinwell seem to realize what he'd just said. You sighed with exasperation.

_"_God, even when Sherlock is dead Big Brother can't help sticking his nose in people's business, can he?"

Shinwell remained quiet, obviously embarrassed.

_"_The car number. Did you get the car number?"

_"_Didn't lead anywhere. Stolen car."

_"_You witnessed it and yet Mycroft couldn't trace it?" That was puzzling. Shinwell just shrugged.

_"_We couldn't get anywhere. All I know is that people have been talking about a woman."

You arched an eyebrow. He looked you in the eye.

_"_It's just a rumour. But it seems that the 'Evil Queen' really is a woman. Then again, I can't be sure this woman is behind the Snow White murders, or if she orchestrated this whole thing with the basket of poisoned apples for you. I don't know. I'm sorry."

* * *

><p><em>And it's cold outside but I'm just fine<em>

* * *

><p>In the end, you couldn't get anything else out of him. Irritated, you asked him to at least keep an eye on Mary; him, or any of the Irregulars. You want to be informed of anything suspicious that happens around her. And you want to know everything that's going on in the "underworld", too. Shinwell promised. But even now, you don't feel that it's safe for Mary anymore. You would never forgive yourself if anything were to happen to her.<p>

You know she's been tired lately. But you've been trying to hide your concern so much, you've been so busy investigating this poisoned apples issue that you did not see this coming.

Could you have seen it coming, had you paid more attention? How?

As it is, you can just stare in shock, disbelieving and confused.

_"_Let's get a divorce."

* * *

><p><em>You are mine to keep warm <em>

* * *

><p>"What?" you ask dumbly.<p>

She smiles gently.

"Let's get a divorce, John."

You take one step back, still not letting go of her, but now finding the closeness too oppressive. "Why?"

She slips out of your arms with a sigh to get a glass of water. She drinks it as if it were a Bloody Mary; as if she needed to get drunk.

"Mary, why are you saying this all of a sudden?"

"It's not sudden. I've been thinking about it for a while."

You just stand there looking at her, stunned.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

It renders you speechless. Could you have been more clueless? Your eyes stop on the bags under hers. You shouldn't have believed her when she said all was fine. Of course it hadn't been fine.

"Stop right there," she interrupts. You shiver. Only Sherlock is supposed to be able to read your mind so easily. Why do they have to be so similar in some respects?

...and so different in others? Your head starts to throb.

"I don't understand," you say.

She smiles tenderly. _Lovingly_. Why?

"I didn't lie to you. I was happy. Actually, I am happy."

"Then why–"

_"_I love living with you. It's comfortable, it's... No, it's more than that. It feels like home."

You decide not to interrupt her anymore, because you still don't understand. Your gaze keeps asking. _Why?_ She doesn't seem to notice. She's not looking at you.

_"_You know how I told you people love each person differently?"

Oh yes, you know. _"_This is about Sherlock." So much about not interrupting.

Mary smiles again.

_"_With you, isn't it always?"

You bite your lip. She's right, and you know it. You thought you were getting better, and that it necessarily implied that you could have a normal, healthy relationship with a woman. Before trying to off yourself with pills, you would never have considered having a girlfriend, not to mention a _wife_. But with Mary, everything seemed so natural... You'd forgotten you were already taken. Admittedly, she knew. She'd known from day one. But shouldn't you have changed your lifestyle for her, then? More than you did? Shouldn't you have tried to let go of Sherlock a bit more?

Just the idea of it stifles you. Your throat tightens and already you feel the pain you've come to know these past few months stir within you. It is no longer crushing, except at night when a bad dream rips your chest apart; but it is there, ever-present, like some natural appendage to your heart that will only stop with it. And as cheesy as the image may sound, this is physically what it feels like: something beating in your chest, sending frenzied signals of fear and agony at the mere thought of losing Sherlock again.

_"_Mary, I–"

_"_I'm pregnant."

This time words completely fail you. _Pregnant? _Did she say_ pregnant?_ You let yourself fall into a chair. This is too much all at once. Maybe you deserve it, but still it doesn't make sense. A divorce, and now a child? What in the world... _Oh. _

_"_So... does he know?"

Mary blinks. She is pacing the room nervously and you can tell she craves a cigarette. Now you understand why she stopped smoking.

_"_Who?"

_"_The father."

She stops dead in her track and looks at you, astonished. She seems about to cry, so you add quickly:

_"_It's fine! If you're telling me, there must be a problem, right? If you want to get a divorce because you don't love me anymore, fine. But if it's just because you got pregnant and the other person isn't ready to face this or something, I... What I'm trying to say is that... Well, it doesn't matter. Whose it is. I'm happy with you. I don't mind if–"

_"_What the... _YOU_ are the father, John!" she explodes. Then her voice breaks. "Who else?!"

Oh. Great. Now she's furious. And you are even more confused.

_"_But then... why?" you fumble.

She gives you a heated look and you have no idea what to do.

_"_You thought I had cheated on you?" she asks rhetorically. "Well, I didn't. I can't. That's the problem!"

_"_That's the problem?" you echo, getting more lost by the second. She frowns and you can't help thinking she looks adorable.

_"_I don't want our child to be raised in this."

_"_You mean the flat?"

_"_No! This!" She waves her hand about, as if it made it any clearer.

You blink.

"Us!" she exclaims.

_"_Us?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, John. Us. You, in love with a dead guy."

_"_Mary–"

_"_Me, attracted to women."

You blink. She turns to you with her weird, wonderful smile.

_"_I love you, John. And I was ready to live my life with you, like this. But with a kid..."

_"_What does it change?" you ask softly, wrapping your arms around her. She smiles crookedly.

_"_I'm falling in love with you, John."

You furrow your brow. "I thought that had already happened."

She shakes her head. "_Please_, John. Don't play stupid with me. You know what I mean."

She doesn't escape your arms but leans into the hug and plays with your ear absent-mindedly. "I never thought I could help you get better or anything like that. But I still thought... I don't know, that me being around might help." She pulls at your ear as if annoyed by its lack of response. "But it doesn't. You don't need me."

_"_Mary, I–"

_"_Shh. It's okay. I fell in love with a man in love with another guy. You're not to blame here. And again, I _am_ happy. It's just... I'm jealous."

You swallow painfully and close your eyes in defeat. "I'm sorry."

_"_Of you."

_"_...What?"

_"_I'm jealous of you."

_"_Of me. You're jealous of _me_."

She nods, unfazed by your bewilderment. "You're so _complete._ Sherlock's dead, and yet you... I respect you so much. I admire you so much."

_Oh, Mary. _You really don't deserve this woman, do you? For once, you feel like she's the adult here and you are reduced to a small, small child to whom she is patiently explaining the depths of life and of feelings. You bring up her chin and kiss her on the lips gently. She bites you.

_"_I'm trying to have a serious conversation here!" she protests. But she's smiling. Even chuckling, now. God, you love her.

_But how?_

_"_So, here's the thing," she goes on. "I'm happy now. But I'll probably grow jealous of your completeness. And I won't be satisfied. I've been hit on lately, but I could only turn them down. It was frustrating."

You frown. She smirks. "You jealous?"

_"_No, I–"

_"_I knew it. Do you realize what your reaction was when you thought I had cheated on you? You weren't even angry. You were worried. Worried that I wouldn't be happy; worried that you'd done something wrong. You weren't even jealous. If that kid hadn't been yours, and if the father had left me, you would have been glad to keep me and adopt the baby, right?"

_"_Yes, of course, I–"

_"_See?" She shakes her head. "Irretrievable." Her tone is teasing. "I'm too young to have this kind of relationship with my husband, John. If we were in our seventies, maybe. Actually, it'd be perfect then. I would love to grow old with you."

You look at her strangely. This is something you wished you had told Sherlock before he died. Perhaps it wouldn't have changed a thing, because now you understand that surely Sherlock had a very good reason to jump that day, a reason that had nothing to do with the rubbish he told you on the phone. The moment you think about his call, his words start falling on you again. _John. Turn around and walk back the way you came now. _You stop the voice before it gets to the part you hate the most. The lies.

_"_You're thinking you would've loved to grow old with Sherlock, aren't you?"

Mary's voice snaps you out of your reminiscence and hits you like a bucket of cold water. How horrible can you be? Her tone is sad, gentle. You lack the strength to lie to her. Maybe you respect her too much for that. _I'm a fake. The newspapers were right all along._ The pain grows in your chest.

_"_Listen, Mary. I know that you must feel like I can't give you much. And it is probably true."

_"_It's fine, John. You never hid it. You were always fair to me."

You nod, and next to the pain in your chest and the unwavering sense of loss and attachment continues to spring another kind of warmth and affection.

_"_Then you must believe me when I tell you this too: there is much that I cannot give you, but all that is left can be yours. It doesn't matter if you live with another man, or woman. It doesn't matter what life you lead. I want you to remember this. Remember that I will always be there for you, and..." You sigh. "I'm not good at this, am I?" She chuckles. A soft smile spreads across your face and you go on, your voice assured: "Mary. Even if you are no longer my wife, and even if you marry someone else... I love you with all the love I can give you."

_"_I know, John, I unders–"

_"_I want you to be part of my life."

Her smile is warm; her hug, artless. She does not thank you, and murmurs instead: "You're so selfish, John."

As you stroke her hair, you find that there's nothing to answer to that. She is right. You stay like this for a while, feeling that maybe you've been through enough despair and craving to be an adult too in the field of _sentiments_, like the incredible woman you are holding.

_"_What do you want to do exactly?" you ask softly as you loosen the embrace.

_"_Well, I want us to raise the kid together. That's for sure. But maybe not live together. I don't want to feel like I'm cheating on you if I start seeing someone else."

_"_So you want your own flat. I understand."

She smiles and you wonder if there isn't a tinge of sadness there, still.

_"_Look," you begin tentatively. "Why don't we talk about it again when the child is born? You know we can't get a divorce now anyway. It's got to be two years at least."

_"_Ha ha, right!"

_"_I'm not letting you leave until you deliver."

_"_You're not being the midwife."

_"_Of course not! I'm not an obstetrician. Even if I were, I wouldn't want to do this... I'd probably faint."

_"_No you wouldn't."

You mirror her smirk. "Maybe not."

Your gazes lock and you start giggling like idiots.

_"_You'd better help me out _a lot_ during the first few years. Babies are a hassle," she groans as she lets you hug her again. You play with her locks – ashes and amber – as you both end up snuggling on the couch.

_"_Mary?"

_"_Mm?"

She nuzzles up closer and you can feel her smile against the crook of your neck.

_"_For me, too... This feels like home."

* * *

><p><em>Down down down I go<br>On a road that I don't know  
>And I ain't got a thing in my bag<em>

* * *

><p>"It's great to have you both for tea," Mrs. Hudson says cheerfully. You never came here to have tea together with Sherlock.<p>

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Mary replies with a smile. It sure has.

"Well, _you_ come to have cake here every day, dear." Definitely something Sherlock wouldn't do.

"Are you saying I'm eating too much?" He never ate enough.

Mrs. Hudson serves the tea in prudent silence. Mary frowns. "John, am I eating too much?"

"Mm? What, no, of course not, dear."

"He just called you dear. Things are going well, aren't they?"

"No, he just isn't listening."

"I am!" you protest.

"He isn't?" Mrs. Hudson asks, blatantly ignoring you.

"Thinking about Sherlock," Mary comments with a grumble.

"Now I remember why I don't usually come for tea. You two together are just terrible."

Mary sticks her tongue at you before biting into a muffin. Sherlock would have been dreadfully bored leading the kind of life you lead right now. You actually enjoy it. Just this, being with Mary and Mrs. Hudson.

And...

"Mrs. Hudson, there's something we wanted to–"

"Do you think Mrs. Turner will rent her flat again?" Mary cuts in.

"Excuse me?"

You're as startled as your landlady. What in the world...?

"Well, I'm not sure. You know she is very affected – she loved the boys so much and..."

Mrs. Hudson trails off, fleetingly averting her gaze. Mary doesn't notice. You do, because you are always on that wavelength anyway. Whenever someone thinks about Sherlock – no, whenever the thought of Sherlock crosses somebody's mind – you know it. You're suddenly connected. Someone falling silent, or looking away, or just pausing in a sentence. Sometimes, there isn't even the slightest sign. But you know. You're like a radio catching the waves. "Sherlock" must be a certain wavelength that you automatically catch whenever it is emitted near you. Idly, you wonder if you would notice it while talking to someone on the phone. Probably. You noticed it in Molly's _emails_ after all.

"But why do you ask?"

Mrs. Hudson's voice snaps you back to the present. By reflex, you look up at the clock. The hand showing the minutes hasn't moved. Your gaze drifts towards Mrs. Hudson again. You've given up trying to understand how it works. Time.

"Oh, you know, just in case. I like their flat," Mary replies off-handedly.

"What do you mean, dear?" Mrs. Hudson insists. Then suddenly appalled: "Are you planning on moving out?" she asks the both of you.

"No!" you exclaim.

"Yep!" Mary asserts.

Of course you and her answered simultaneously.

"Well, it's just..." you begin.

"Eventually though. Not now," she finishes.

"She means her. Not me."

Mrs. Hudson frowns as she puts down the tea pot.

"You have lost me, dears."

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

You exchange an amused glance with Mary.

"Please, go ahead," you offer as she says "You can tell her."

"Oh, kids! John, you speak."

"What? But... Fine. Mary is pregnant."

"_What?_ John, that's not what she was asking!" Mary protests. She pouts. "_I_ wanted to tell her about the baby."

"This is wonderful!" Mrs. Hudson exclaims. She sounds sincerely happy. She is. You love her for it.

Would Sherlock have been happy? Idiot. Why would he have been happy? You don't know. Happy about what? Having a kid? Seeing _you_ with a kid? Don't be stupid.

"Since when have you known?"

"Yesterday," you reply.

"For a while," Mary says. "What we wanted to tell you, though, is that we plan on getting a divorce."

Mrs. Hudson almost drops her cup of tea. "You what?"

"Well, you see..."

Mary explains. You think she's very good at explaining things. Sherlock was too, of course. In a different way. You smile. _A very different way_. What they're talking about on television right now, for instance.

"**_The body of a young drug dealer was found this morning in the Thames. The police..."_**

Yes, that would have been right up his street.

"See? It would be unhealthy! I wouldn't want our child ending up like this one!"

"Oh dear, what are you saying?"

"He mustn't have had great parents, dying so young."

"Drug dealing has become such a problem nowadays, and young people are unfortunately getting involved."

"See?"

"How in the world is that relevant to anything?" you ask, laughing.

"Oh, shut up. You go back to daydreaming about Sherlock and let me do the talking, _darling_. Won't you?"

It is in those moments, when her voice is so sweet and her words so sharp, that you feel like kissing her.

Often, it is in such moments that she pronounces it. Sherlock's name.

* * *

><p><em>Some things you cannot plan<br>Like your hand in mine  
>Just put your hand in mine <em>

* * *

><p>"I like the white one," Mary declares, pointing to the catalogue. You look up from the brochure you've been flipping through.<p>

"Sure. It's nice."

She pouts.

"You don't really care, do you." It isn't even a rhetorical question. It's a statement.

"What? No, I do! I just think the white one is nice."

"Yes. Just like the cherry one, the coco one, the –"

"Well, I'm sorry I don't have any preference as to the crib we buy!"

Mary closes the catalogue sharply (sèchement). Your breath catches in your throat as you meet her eyes.

"We don't even know whether it's a girl or a boy," you argue meekly.

"It's a boy."

You stare. Her tone is serious. It is most of the time, which is the reason she is not only funny, but comical too.

"Why?"

"Because I want one."

You burst out laughing and leave your armchair to join her on the couch, wrapping your arm around her shoulder and kissing her on the cheekbone.

"Let's talk about names then, if you don't care about the colour of the bed."

"Mary..."

"We're not calling him Sherlock."

"I wouldn't want to!" you protest. "That'd be awful. Not to mention unhealthy."

"You mean it'd be terrible for the kid. I mean, Sherlock? I wonder what his mother was thinking when she... Sorry."

"No problem, darling." _It's not the name I fell in love with_.

"Darling?"

"Sorry."

"Any name you like?"

"Mmh... The boy version of your middle-name?"

"John!"

"What? It's not that I don't care, it's just that I have no idea! What do _you_ like?"

"I like Lucas. Or Blake."

"_Blake_? That's kind of... old-fashioned?"

"Because Sherlock isn't?"

"But I never said anything about Sherlock!"

"JOHN!" You and Mary jump at the roar coming from the staircase. You just have time to exchange a look before the door to the living-room is slammed open. _Harry_. Soon followed by Chris. "John, how dare you–"

She freezes upon seeing Mary in your arms, the baby furniture catalogue still on her knees.

"What's going on here?"

"_What's going on?_ Harry, what are _you_ doing here?!"

"Well, I heard that..." She glances at Chris nervously; Chris gives you a sheepish smile.

"I told you you should have talked to her yourself, John," she reminds you, her smile only faintly apologetic. Her eyes are twinkling at the scene. But Harry seems completely lost.

"Chris told me you were getting a divorce."

"Sorry, I couldn't stop her coming," Chris adds. "You know how she is."

"That's... fine," Mary answers, tilting her head tentatively. "We _are_ getting a divorce. Well, eventually. It's got to be two years since the wedding to–"

"But why?" Harry interrupts, apparently not bothered in the least by the rudeness of her behaviour. "And you!" she goes on, her glare accusing, "how can you divorce the woman who bears your child?"

"Harry!" Chris exclaims.

"Can I not divorce your brother just because I got pregnant with his child?"

Mary's simple question seems to calm everyone down. All fall silent. Unwittingly, you take May's hand in yours. She presses it back. Harry averts her gaze awkwardly.

"What do you think of Blake?" Mary asks.

"_Blake_? What's that?"

"Baby name," Chris whispers.

"Oh. Uh... bit old-fashioned?" Harry answers truthfully, still oblivious as to good manners.

"But so was Sherlock," Chris comments.

"God, who said anything about Sherlock?!" you snap. "I am _not_ naming my child Sherlock!"

"That would be a little twisted, I suppose," Chris admits somewhat awkwardly. You realize she must be remembering the dreams you'd told her about and blush like an idiot. It gets worse when you catch Mary's smirk.

"Mum and dad would have been happy that at least one of us gave them a grandchild," Harry muses, as if talking to herself. You look up in surprise.

"Well... Maybe we should go, now," Chris says in a quiet voice, gently pulling Harry towards the door. "Mary? Blake is nice. It means fair-haired, doesn't it?"

"Fair-haired? Isn't that a stupid name? What if his hair is not–"

"Come on Harry, let's go. Call us, you two. Let's have dinner some time when you've figured out baby names." Chris winks, and with these words, both are gone.

You wait until you hear the front door close; you wait until Mrs. Hudson dares knock on the door with hesitation, asking if everything is all right, she's sorry dear, but it was Harry, and Christiane was there too, so she thought it might be just fine to let them in, and suddenly Harry was so lively, but oh she's glad everything is all right, and Mary dear you look quite pale you should rest a bit, John take good care of her won't you? She's having tea with Mrs. Turner today and she'll ask her about the flat. Mary walks her to the door. Yes. Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson. Let us know about the flat. Nothing urgent, though. No, not before a year at least. Yes. Thank you.

_Blake means fair-haired?_

"Yes," Mary answers evenly. "Problem?"

"Did I just say that out loud?"

"Uhm… Yes, John. You just did."

You sigh.

"It's a coincidence," she says as she goes to the kitchen and puts your tea cups in the sink. "I really do like that name. Always have. My dream was to become a governess, remember? I was always old-fashioned."

"You're not old-fashioned to me," you murmur, hugging her from behind. "You know, about the child... We should definitely tell your parents, this time."

She stops washing the cups at once.

"Oh, you mean like: 'Hey mum, hey dad, actually the person I married was a man, now I'm pregnant and we're getting a divorce – but we're the best of friends and I'm moving in next door so we can be close and especially when the brat is a baby because alone that would be a hassle – I mean, even more of a hassle'. You're right, love. I'm sure they would be o-ver-joyed..."

"Right. Sorry. But we don't need to tell them about the divorce just ye–"

"John." She turns to look you in the eye. "Close your eyes." Although slightly bewildered, you comply. You've got used to her quirkiness after all. And you love it. You think Sherlock wouldn't have hated it either, although you cannot be sure. "Who do you see?" Your eyes snap open and widen. Your voice gets stuck in your throat. You cannot find the gut to answer her. She knows.

"We _are_ getting a divorce," she murmurs. And her smile is adding soundlessly: Q.E.D.

* * *

><p><em>And it's cold outside but I'm just fine<br>You are mine to keep warm  
>Yeah it's cold outside but I'm just fine<br>You are mine to keep warm _

* * *

><p>"You are <em>what<em>?"

"Pregnant. And getting a divorce."

"Mary, what the–"

"I didn't order a Bloody Mary, Jerry."

"That's even more disturbing!"

.

"What did you say?"

"Mary is pregnant. And she wants to get a divorce."

Lestrade's jaw almost drops. You take a sip of your beer.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Then why?"

"Maybe that's why."

.

"How can he have accepted so easily?" Jerry growls.

"He's smart. He knows it's for the best. And he loves me."

"Then what's the problem? Don't you love him?"

"I do. That's the problem."

.

"So... This is about Sherlock, in the end."

"I'm not sure. Well, yes, probably. Just not the way I'd expected."

"Had you expected it?"

"...No. I guess I took it for granted."

"It?"

"But hasn't your life changed drastically as well? Since his death, I mean."

"Of course," Lestrade replies. "I lost my job. I was transferred out of London. Many things changed. But John: I'm not in love with Sherlock."

To this you can only answer with a weak smile.

.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Buy the white one, I think."

"White is rather dull! What about the cherry one?"

"You think so?"

"Yes, it's warmer, and it would be good for a boy or for a girl."

"But it's going to be a boy."

"Right. Well, cherry is nice anyway."

.

"Probably Blake. Mary loves the name."

"_Blake?_"

"It means fair-haired."

"..."

"'Sherlock' meant fair-haired, too."

Greg bursts out laughing.

"How unfitting! He never told me."

You smile. "He probably never knew."

.

"I'm so glad I can discuss such things with you, Jerry. John is not interested at all!"

"Isn't that good, though? You'll get to choose the name."

"I would've liked him to like it..."

"Oh, I'm sure he does."

"Because of the meaning?"

"Because it is the name _you_ have always wished to give to your child."

Mary smiles unconvincingly.

.

"There are so many things he never told me."

"Same here. And I was his flatmate."

"Yeah... You know, John, even if you hate Mycroft, you should probably go and talk to him."

The sudden change of tone puzzles you.

"Why?"

"He misses him, too."

You snort.

"And he forgave me," Lestrade adds quietly.

"What was there for _him_ to forgive _you_?"

You meet Lestrade's eyes, and the crushing emptiness there almost engulfs you.

"You should talk to him," he repeats.

You waver a moment, then put your hand on his shoulder, gingerly; wordlessly.

* * *

><p><em>Sables and wine till the end of time, you give me much more than that<br>Diamond rings and beautiful things  
>Oh you give me much more than that<br>When you smile _

* * *

><p>In the end, it is because of the notebook that you go to see Mycroft. Sherlock's notebook. The one from his school days.<p>

It's cryptic.

And that's an understatement. It's not a journal. Thinking of it now, you wonder how you could have ever believed that Sherlock, of all people, had written a _diary_. It looks like any notebook for school, and there's even written (or rather, scribbled) _Mathematics_ on the cover.

On the first page too, with a date: _1985-1986_.

On the second page, there are equations; you've forgotten all about it now, but you doubt this is Key Stage Three level.

And then, chaos.

There are some equations still, and notations that must have something to do with chemistry, for you recognize some signs from the periodic table.

On some pages, carefully written, a name, an article, a book:

_Marsh J. (1836). "Account of a method of separating small quantities of arsenic from substances with which it may be mixed". Edinburgh New Philosophical Journal 21: 229–236. _

_McMuigan, Hugh (1921). An Introduction to Chemical Pharmacology_

Then, almost unreadable, what you construe are notes about said book or article. Maybe. Or thoughts. They are almost taken in shorthand style, and even when you recognize some words, you cannot make sense of it.

On other pages, just a sentence.

**Phenomenology is not science. _Experimentum crucis._**

**_._**

**Remember Keith Simpson.**

.

**Delete Hume. Whewell more useful. Not to mention Darwin.**

Even if you look up all these people, how are you supposed to make sense of this? Obviously, Sherlock had never written in the idea that someone, other than him, would ever read him.

Sometimes it is slightly more elaborate, but no less cryptic:

**75628 28591 62916 48164 91748 58464 74748 28483 81638 18174  
>74826 26475 83828 49175 74658 37575 75936 36565 81638 17585<br>75756 46282 92857 46382 75748 38165 81848 56485 64858 56382  
>72628 36281 81728 16463 75828 16483 63828 58163 63630 47481<br>91918 46385 84656 48565 62946 26285 91859 17491 72756 46575  
>71658 36264 74818 28462 82649 18193 65626 48484 91838 57491<br>81657 27483 83858 28364 62726 26562 83759 27263 82827 27283  
>82858 47582 81837 28462 82837 58164 75748 58162 92000<strong>  
><strong>Moral: don't forget.<strong>

**Beale's. Don't lose the book. Take a book many would have but none would think of (Magna Carta or Bible would be stupid). And stupid is dull. **

**Polyalphabetic substitution. Try tabula recta with ideograms instead of letters. Could be fun. **

When reading such pages, you end up despairing. Even using Google doesn't tell you what his train of thought had been then. Doing some research helps, of course – understanding that Sherlock was talking about ciphers there, induction, famous cases in criminology... Goethe. Wittgenstein. It's eclectic. It makes no sense as whole. Personal notes, written by Sherlock for Sherlock, and for nobody else.

And yet sometimes, a few familiar words. A quote, for instance.

"**You have beguiled me with a counterfeit  
>Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried,<br>Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn;"**

"**'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost  
>In this which he accounts so clearly won."<strong>

Did he like Shakespeare? Why these particular quotes?

...and why did it have to be _King John_?

And then there are some recurring patterns. In the top right corner of many pages is, often, scrawled something that looks like a title, sometimes with annotations.

_GZur Farbenlehre_

_LWRemarks on Colour_

_JPFThe Complete System of Police Medicine _

_JBA manual of the operations of surgery _**– historical, but is in the Library**

_CWLegal medicine_

_CWCause of Death_

_SSMostly Murder _

_FCPractical Forensic Medicine_

_WDer Ring des Nibelungen _

_AKOn the Use of the Indian Numerals **– **_**not of solely historical interest **

Thanks to the books that have something to do with your profession, you understand that the capital letters at the beginning of each are in fact initials. Works that Sherlock was reading at the time? That he planned on reading? But the annotations indicated that he had, most likely, already read them. Recommended books, perhaps? You smile. As if. Who would have recommended such things to a twelve year old? And who would Sherlock have listened to anyway?

You have no idea. In fact, this notebook tells you nothing. Yet Sherlock seemed to have been saying many things in it, as is sometimes made clear by unexpected comments among incomprehensible scribble:

**Plaintext **** Key = Ciphertext**

**Ciphertext **** Key = Plaintext**

**Ciphertext1 **** Ciphertext2 = Plaintext1 **** Plaintext2**

**(Plaintext1 **** Plaintext2) **** Plaintext1 = Plaintext2**

**Plaintext1 **** Ciphertext1 = Key **

**_MS 408_**** – mere drawings. All idiots, could as well be Enochian – and why not? The language of angels... Idiots. The only angel in the matter would be Serafini. **

Surely Sherlock seemed quite excited and irritated here. Or bored, perhaps. In any case, in these words something like an emotion transpired. Feelings. There were, surprisingly, feelings in the notebook. And humour, too, as you realized when you googled the few Latin inscriptions written in bold on key pages: the third one (**_Hoc affer tecum_**:"take it"_), _followed by the fourth (**_Cave canem_**:"beware of dog"); and then, the very last: **_Nulla imago habeo_**: "I have no idea."

Well. You didn't either. Except that maybe, you muse, Sherlock had considered the possibility that someone would read this notebook after all, and had made sure to prepare everything to ridicule said person.

You flip through the pages. There is another recurring pattern – or something you believe to be some kind of recurring pattern, although you can't be sure. You only think so because it is always placed at the bottom of the page on which it is written, centred.

**ETAOIN SHRDLU**

**.**

**QRGYWUZ RWF SYI SP EBEWZ**

**UDGXZKE DZM HXT HP WYWZE**

**QTWPUNY TUO XPS XF ZVZUY**

**.**

**VRLKXYCRXNJKNTWBMBXM**

**.**

**ZI PP BB GI BM NP RG AY QY BN**

**.**

And so on. Finally, on the last page where such a pattern is written, emphasized in red ink:

**IFANVDPFMQHPAHLEKGKA**

**...**

**TI AI UO YI UZ RI BI CN ER MU**

These inscriptions remain a mystery. In fact, most of the notebook remains a mystery. And yet sometimes...

Sometimes, a few terrible words. Words you wish were in quotation marks.

**We reach. We grasp. And what is life in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow – misery.**

In the end, only Mycroft remains. He was the one in possession of the notebook after all. Maybe he has the key. Not to the pages that remain cryptic even after having done some research. No, the key to the notebook as a whole. The key to _Sherlock_.

Of course it isn't only that. There's Mary too. The apples. Questions that Greg cannot answer, but to which Mycroft, _the British government_, may well have the answers.

As you silently wait in the hall of the Diogenes Club, you wonder whether this was a good idea after all. You wait, and you feel the profound, feral loathing slowly rising within you.

"Dr. Watson?"

Your eyes snap up. You never heard that voice. Mycroft had the sense to send someone to greet you and lead you to him, rather than come himself. You take a deep breath and follow the man who introduced himself as "Wiggins".

When you enter the room the first thing that hits you is the smell. The same as the one that filled the place on the day before Sherlock died. You close your eyes briefly, trying to collect yourself. You think of Lestrade's eyes, and their emptiness. You think of Mary, apples; her obliviousness. You think of Sherlock. And then you walk in.

At first neither of you utters a word. The tension is palpable, and you feel the urgent need to crush it.

"Hello, John."

Of course, he beat you to it.

"Hello."

You still can't find it in you to utter his name.

"Please have a sit."

You carefully avoid the couch and take a chair instead.

"I have questions."

"I guessed as much."

"You _guess_?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

Mycroft smiles thinly. He has lost weight.

"I guess, yes."

"Sherlock never guessed."

"He _said_ he never guessed."

You nod a little stiffly. You did not come here to play games.

"Right," you say, "and we both know you are smarter so you at least recognize it, naturally. Now can we move on to the questions?"

"How are you?"

His words catch you off guard and you just stare, speechless. When you realize you're gaping, you cough a little and look away.

"I'm good. Thank you. You?"

The triviality of the exchange fails to dispel the sense of unease. Because your eyes are fixed on the door, you miss whatever expression Mycroft has upon hearing your answer, and are relieved when he simply replies:

"Good. Thank you."

Silence threatens to settle in again and you have to muster all your courage to break it. This room is sickening you.

"I read the notebook."

"Anything interesting?"

"You tell me."

You look at him again and see that he has been watching you the whole time. A sudden fury flares up in your guts. You very much feel like throwing it all in his face: surely he must see it. _Go ahead, read. Read me, Mycroft. Observe. See. Did you suffer nearly as much?_ You wish he could read it all. The first week. The shopping to find a wig that would fit and the disembodied puppet. The smiley face above the toilet. The wine. The pills.

Well. He is well aware of that part already, isn't he?

You hold up his gaze, but he does not look away. He does not fight it, either. _His_ face expresses nothing. Not even indifference. It's blank. Unreadable, but absolutely so, as if there was nothing, never would be anything, to be read on that face. It pains you. In his eyes, stable, something like a glimmer, that may be sending some message. Or none. Maybe it's just a glint; the reflection of an exterior light on cold iron.

"Where did you find it?"

He smiles.

"In his school stuff."

"You looked through his school stuff?"

"I think I just stated that quite clearly."

You groan. Does he have to start being insufferable so soon? He seems to sense your annoyance and continues evenly:

"Interesting you should mention Sherlock's notebook first, of all things," he muses. "I can see your priorities–"

"You know nothing of my priorities, Mycroft." Suddenly you feel very tired. "Forget the notebook, then. What about the apples?"

"You want to hear about the notebook."

"Is there anything you can tell me about it?"

"If you want the key to Sherlock, then no."

In this very instant, you hate him like you never have. Good thing you left the gun at the flat.

"So it really is just scribble? Personal notes he took, as reminders?"

"Or keepsakes."

"Keepsakes? _Sherlock?_"

"You know his mind, John. You know he only forgot what he chose to forget."

"Then what?"

"An enigma."

"For whom?"

"Everyone. Himself included. '**_Nulla imago habeo_**.' I am sure he meant it."

_"_But what did he have no idea about? What is the enigma about?"

Mycroft averts his gaze thoughtfully, looking out the window. "Himself, probably."

_"_I thought the Latin quotes were just him being cheeky."

_"_Yes, that's right."

_"_But then why is it an enigma?"

The elder Holmes smiles indulgently.

_"_What was he being cheeky about, John?"

_"_Well, it said 'take it', but then 'beware of the dog', so it was like saying 'at your own risks', right? As if the notebook could actually bite. But then at the end it said 'I have no idea' and..."

Oh.

_"_Yes. Can you imagine? A notebook carefully hidden – never _actually_ hidden or put away, always lying around with so many worthless other notebooks and textbooks, the front page a cardboard paper trompe-l'oeil. The only thing that might have revealed something about Sherlock's mind, his reflective thoughts. His consciousness. He tried. He played the game, though not by the rules. So we too look for him, throughout all those pages, asking 'Who are you?' And in the end, his own answer: _Nulla imago habeo_."

A shiver runs down your spine.

_"_So he knew it would be read?"

_"_He guessed."

You swallow with some difficulty as Mycroft starts pacing the room.

_"_This was his only attempt at writing anything personal. After the answer he had brought to the problem, or perhaps the problems, evoked in this notebook, he seems to have brushed them off and focused solely on scientific experiments. This notebook isn't a cipher, John. It is a question mark. There is no key, because there is no keyhole."

_"_What about the ciphers inside it, then?"

_"_He did research ciphers. He found them fascinating."

_"_Are the inscriptions at the bottom of the pages ciphers?"

Mycroft's smile becomes a little forced.

_"_Indeed."

_"_Did you decipher them?

_"_I did."

_"_Well?"

_"_It would be of no interest to you."

_"Mycroft._"

He sighs, perhaps a little too dramatically.

_"_It says: 'Mycroft, you are an idiot.'"

Your eyes widen.

_"What?_"

_"_You heard me."

_"_You're serious? That's what it says? _All_ of them?"

_"_No. The first one is a nonsense phrase. It is as if Sherlock was announcing: 'NONSENSE'. After that, yes, all of them are the same, but always with a different encrypting method. And the last two..."

_"_The ones in red ink?"

_"_The ones in red ink. They are special."

_"_I had gathered. Because?"

_"_The encrypting method is different. For the first line, he used the Vigenère square. Then, with much humour, what we call the Playfair cipher."

_"_How are these methods different from the others?"

_"_They encrypt using a keyword. The keyword can be anything, but in this case, it was meant to be part of the message. Cocking a final snook, I suppose."

_"_What are the keywords?"

This time, his smile is as cryptic as many pages of the notebook, and you know he will not answer.

_"_I am sure you will keep reading the notebook again and again, John. Perhaps you will find something that I did not," he says, his tone clearly telling the contrary. "Have you not come to ask about the apples?"

You repress a sigh and give it up. This is Mycroft, after all. You won't make him tell you what he does not want to tell. "What do you know?"

"Not much."

You cannot help suppressing a doubtful snort. He sends you a look. You tilt your head innocently.

"The one who put the apples in front of your door was a young drug dealer. His body was just found in the Thames. Obviously he was just paid to do it, then killed to leave no trace."

Now you are genuinely surprised.

"You mean they actually did manage to leave no trace? Even for _you_?"

"I am flattered, John, but I'm afraid I cannot tell you much more than Shinwell Johnson."

You fall silent. "So you really know nothing?"

"Only one person is behind all the murders, but he or she never performed them himself or herself. It is even unlikely that this one person was the one who then killed off most of the murderers, if not all."

"So someone is just orchestrating it all from the dark?"

"It is not excluded that he or she committed some of the murders."

You get a sinking feeling. "But why?"

"Why, indeed."

"It feels like it's a game. It feels  
>like..."<p>

"Jim Moriarty is dead, John."

"I know! I know. Still... Why would anyone do that?"

To this, Mycroft does not seem to have the answer.

"Why Mary?" you ask more quietly, darkly. "Is she a target?"

"None of the victims were mothers."

You don't even ask how he knows Mary bears a child. It doesn't matter.

"Will you keep an eye on her?"

Mycroft's gaze weighs on you. His scrutiny would wear anyone down. You look him in the eye.

"You owe me that."

"Oh, yes," he replies lightly. "Maybe I owe you."

You don't know what is so amusing. But even though you don't appreciate his entertained tone, you decide to shrug it off. You do have priorities.

"There's something you are not telling me. You don't have to, I suppose. I am no Sherlock, and I would be no use in investigating anything. So keep your secrets, Mycroft. But ensure my wife's safety. If you hid something from me today and any harm comes to her, I will kill you."

Your tone is conversational. You do not swear. Mycroft is not one to be threatened: a simple statement will do.

"Naturally," he replies with one of his infuriating little smiles. You stand up.

"Leaving already?"

"You won't tell me anything more, will you? About the notebook. About the Snow White case."

"Do you have any other questions?"

"You met Mary."

"Yes."

"Did you tell her something?"

"Whatever do you mean, John? We talked for about two hours, naturally I–"

"We're getting a divorce."

"Oh. Yes. I heard."

"Of course," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you walk to the door. "I'll be going, then."

"John?"

You look back and meet Mycroft's gaze. The glimmer is still there. Or the glint. His expression is grave again.

"Sherlock is dead. There may still be repercussions, people playing, but–"

"I know, Mycroft," you interrupt. "I know."

* * *

><p><em>You are mine to keep warm<br>And it's cold outside but I'm just fine_

* * *

><p>Alone on the couch tonight, you vainly try to fall asleep.<p>

You've taken up the habit to sleep here when Mary feels like having the bed all to herself. She sleeps on the first floor, of course. It's safer. You sleep next to her when she says she wants "a teddy bear" or "a warm pillow". You don't actually sleep together anymore, but you do not miss it. It was never about the sex with Mary. You care about her much more than that.

Turning onto your side, you let your gaze wander about the living-room. It's full of memories. Fond memories, painful memories... This place is your life. There is Sherlock's stuff, yours, Mary's. It's not dead. The room keeps on living, and you catch yourself imagining how it will look once the baby is here. Mary might move out, but still this room, this flat, would change again. When you had come to visit it for the first time after Sherlock's death, you had sworn you would never return. It was dead, deader than dead. You shudder. That day is still engraved in your very flesh, Sherlock's touch invading your every dream, your every nightmare, his voice laced with each and every one of your thoughts. You are possessed. You are haunted.

When Blake will be born (will it be Blake? Will it even be a boy?) this room, this flat, will be transformed again.

But always Sherlock's presence remains, and will remain. Of that you are certain. Perhaps because his presence isn't so much in the flat as in your own mind. Still it feels like the warmth in the room is also Sherlock's; hugging the silence, you know it will never stop hurting.

But this pain is also proof that Sherlock once lived. You close your eyes and let the pain and the inexhaustible, choking affection crush and swallow you.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

><p><em>You are mine to keep warm <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	36. Aequo animo

**A/N: I would like to thank Asher and the anonymous reviewer(s?) who left comments since I last updated, and whom I cannot thank via PM. Thank you for reading this story even though it is a songfic. And yes, there will be a reunion, as announced in the summary. Not before many chapters though, I'm afraid. Thank you for your reviews, it really gives me courage.**

**In any case, I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Two different characters centric this time ;)**

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

**_Aequo animo: _**_"with even mind", "calmly"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is K+.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXXV: Aequo animo<strong>

_Save me, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Licking my fingers, cracking my bones<br>I'm always ready for a fight  
>But you make it calm down, you got the right sound<br>And I'll let you win tonight _

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes never had nightmares. One could say that he had no time to bother with them. Sometimes, however, he did get what one may call bad omens. Mycroft never believed in intuition. It was such a silly, inane concept; and yet that was it. <em>A bad feeling. <em>A hunch. Mycroft did not appreciate it in the least.

But what he hated even more than the hunch itself was when the rational part of his brain found reasons to support this negative impression; good reasons to confirm his fears. Dark figures looming over Sherlock, for instance. Shadows moving around him. _The Evil Queen._ And...

_Sebastian Moran_.

Mycroft's face darkened. Had the reason, he wondered, that Moriarty had nicknamed him 'the Iceman', been because of his lack of a heart? Or, more likely, because Moriarty had already found him out? Found out not only the fact that Mycroft's only source of any warmth and _feelings_ was his little brother; but also the fact that he would go to great lengths to protect him, even if it implied some dark deeds as well. Even if it implied eliminating any living, threatening shadows around Sherlock.

But thanks to his unnerving, impetuous, _proud_ sibling, Mycroft had no way to know anything about Sherlock's possible secret agenda. If he had been sure that the cardboard paper 'Evil Queen' and Moran were no use whatsoever to Sherlock, they would have been seen to long ago. But that was precisely the problem: Mycroft could not be sure. He did not know whether Sherlock needed them for now; whether he had planned anything for them or with them, at all. In fact, he knew very little about what Sherlock was planning, in details and in general.

Bringing him I.O.U. members on a platter, for one thing. And what else? What did Sherlock plan for himself? What did he plan for people such as Moran, and that Snow White hater? Why hadn't he got rid of them already, considering they had become threats to John Watson? And threats to his bride.

_Mary Morstan_.

Why had the Evil Queen targeted her? How could they possibly know about her? About _John_? No, rather... How could they know of Sherlock's attachment to him? Surely by now he must have learnt his lesson. Sherlock was not stupid enough to make his feelings obvious _now. _If he had any left, that is.

Yet the fact remained. Mary Morstan had been targeted. More importantly, John Watson had been targeted. Miss Morstan – no, Mrs. Watson – was only of interest because of her new name and status. Because she had become John's wife.

Mycroft looked out the window of his office pensively. The sky was clear. No storm seemed to be brewing. And yet...

John Watson did not deserve this. He had not deserved Sherlock's death either. Would he have got close to Sherlock Holmes, had he known what was awaiting him at the end of the road? Loss, and grief. Only darkness. John could not have known. But had he known, would he have moved into Baker Street?

Mycroft frowned the thought away. Useless thinking. Why was he wasting his time with such musings? Life was never about what one deserved. It was about what happened. Facts. There was nothing more to it. And that was quite enough already.

Now the fact was, John had been targeted again. Well, his wife had been. Mycroft certainly had not expected that: for him to remarry. Couldn't he have just waited patiently, if a little gloomily, until Sherlock returned? But no, naturally Dr. Watson could not behave like everyone else. He had to try to commit suicide. He had to remarry with the first eccentric woman he met because he could talk to her about Sherlock and she understood. He had to involve more innocents still in this dreadful business. He just had to create more trouble for Sherlock, and for Mycroft.

Well, at least it wasn't as if he had married the Evil Queen herself or anything of the like. But that idiot had still managed to become rather good friends with none other than the sniper who had been set to kill him the day Sherlock had jumped. Mycroft never shivered; he did not have to repress a shudder at the thought. His expression simply darkened. Since John did not want to see him, there was only one other way.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

"Hello Mycroft. I'm happy you could make it today."

He smiled down at the landlady and caught a glimpse of an excited girl grinning by her side. _Woman_, he corrected absent-mindedly.

"Hello! I'm Mary," the woman said, extending her hand. He shook it mechanically.

"Mrs. Watson. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Mary. I'm not going to call you Mr. Holmes. Too awkward."

Awkward? Well, perhaps, he supposed. Amusing, that woman.

"...I see. Well. Mary, then. I brought some scones," he continued, putting the bag on the table.

"Oh, you shouldn't have gone through the trouble," Mrs. Hudson replied happily.

"I really did not."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes as she went to the kitchen with the scones. Mycroft turned to Mary. She was wearing dungarees – orange, pinkish ones. Her hair was rather thin, and so was her entire silhouette. John had had better looking girlfriends in the past; yet for some reason he could not explain, Mycroft found her beautiful. A very strange feeling blossomed in the pit of his stomach as she flashed him an unalloyed, if tired, smile. A feeling very close to pity.

"So. You wish to know more about Sherlock, I heard."

"Not quite," she answered. Mycroft could tell she was teasing him, imitating the way he spoke. _Cheeky_. She reminded him a little of Sherlock, in a lighter, friendlier way. "John would, though," she added more seriously, looking him in the eye.

"Is that so?" Mycroft replied offhandedly. "Then I wonder why it isn't him sitting here in your place."

Mary frowned.

"Aren't you happy to meet me?"

"Well, it certainly is a pleasure," he retorted, smiling thinly, eliciting a sigh from her.

"I don't see _you_ making a lot of efforts to see him."

"Considering that the last time I did, your husband pointed a loaded gun at me, I fail to see how I could be perceived as the hostile one here."

She burst out laughing, almost surprising Mycroft. Almost. Her laugh too was strange – rather low pitch, full, direct. Quite charming. "I bet you're not used to it! People pointing a gun at you. John is full of surprises, isn't he?"

"He is. Did _you_ get used to it?"

They exchanged a look. Mrs. Hudson came back with the scones and a third cup.

"John described you well," Mary said as she grabbed a scone.

"Did he?" Mycroft replied playfully. He was enjoying this a little too much.

"_Insufferable_," she said with an impish smile. Mycroft smirked back.

"I can tell you never met my brother."

"Actually, I did."

Mrs. Hudson almost dropped her cup of tea. Mycroft froze. Met him? Did she say she had met Sherlock?

"In dreams," Mary went on. Mycroft had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Silly girl. He saw Mrs. Hudson give her a pained look, which she missed. That dear landlady was too kind for her own good. She could not take care of every tenant she had. She should not _care_ about them to such an extent.

"How was he?" Mycroft asked, taking a sip of tea.

"He was nice."

"Then I'm afraid it wasn't him, Mrs. Watson."

"Mary."

"Mary," he corrected obligingly. "If it isn't to talk about Sherlock, then, I am not sure of what help I could be."

"Of no help at all," she answered with a grin. He stared. "I just wanted to meet you. To meet a Holmes, of course – I've heard so much about you two that I was getting frustrated. But I wanted to meet you especially."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

"You have to talk to John again."

The elder Holmes's mouth twisted into a slightly bitter smile. "Have I been forgiven, then?" he said sarcastically. Mary did not even seem to notice his tone. Or perhaps she ignored it.

"No. He hasn't forgiven you." She brought her cup to her lips. "He never will."

Mycroft just kept staring. This woman was becoming more and more interesting. Maybe he could understand, to some extent, why John had married her even though he was helplessly in love with Sherlock. Mary looked down at her cup of tea.

"He hasn't forgiven himself, either," she said quietly. "And he never will." She bit into a scone decidedly. She really ate a lot, although she was so thin. Unless... Mycroft started observing her more closely. "But he can stand living with himself," she went on. The bags under her eyes were dark. Her complexion, not very healthy. She kept eating relentlessly; automatically. "I'm sure he'd stand seeing you again."

Mycroft chuckled softly.

"I like your scones," Mary commented.

"Mrs. Watson – I'm sorry, Mary. Why did you marry John?"

"Because I loved him."

"Past tense?"

"I _married_ him because I _loved_ him. Past tense. I'm still living with him because I love him. Present tense. You may attend some of my classes if you wish, Mycroft. I'll be happy to teach you conjugation."

The British government pursed his lips.

"I can see why he married you."

"Let me guess. Not because he loved me. Because I am similar to Sherlock, perhaps? Oh, don't act all surprised. It's a waste of time. You knew I knew. We're both too old for games, don't you think, Mycroft? And I dare say neither of us is as fond of 'games' as _they_ are."

"They?"

"John, and Sherlock. Now don't act _slow_. That's even more insulting."

Mycroft did not think it was necessary to inform Mary that he had been genuinely surprised by her lucidity.

"You don't strike me as old."

"Well, I do like to play. And I like fairy tales."

Mycroft's eyes turned to slits. A coincidence? Again? Seemed like it.

"I enjoy reading them to children."

"You would be a wonderful mother, I am sure."

This time it was Mary's turn to look at Mycroft strangely. He gave her a sweet smile that made her frown a little.

"Even though you like fairy tales, you did not seem to take the references to Snow white very seriously."

"Of course not. Did you see my skin?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Mary rolled her eyes.

"If anyone looked like Snow White, I would rather say it was Sherlock."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. She quoted: "'White as snow, rosy as blood, and whose hair was as black as ebony.' Now that's not exactly my spitting image, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Many of the victims did not have black hair."

"They were all younger than me."

"Oh, so you did your research."

"Of course." She shrugged.

"Aren't you scared at all?"

"Well, as long as I don't eat any apples, shouldn't it be alright?"

Mycroft blinked, disbelieving. How could she be so... daft? Innocent? He wasn't quite sure what to think of it.

"Plus, it could be only a prank."

Fine. Definitely daft.

"Right," he said. "It could."

"Do you know anything?" she asked suspiciously.

"I am not the police, Mrs. Watson."

"_Mary_. No, you're much worse than the police."

"How kind for Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Oh, that's right. He's part of the police but he's a nice guy. I like him."

"Dear, John would be jealous if he heard you say that," Mrs. Hudson teased gently.

"No, he wouldn't," Mary retorted in a falsely dejected tone. "And seriously, he'd be one to talk! He's in love with a dead guy!"

Silence fell over the living-room. Mary glanced at Mycroft, then at Mrs. Hudson, and fidgeted a bit. "Sorry," she grumbled. "Didn't mean to–"

"That's quite fine, _Mary_."

She looked up at Mycroft and fixed her gaze on him for a moment. He held it up. After a while, she finally asked:

"Say, Mycroft... What truly happened to Sherlock?"

"Excuse me?"

"That day, when he jumped. Or before, even. John said you sold him to Moriarty and that's why the man could trick him in the end, forcing him to kill himself. That's why he hates you. But you're his brother, you couldn't possibly have–"

"I did."

Mary froze.

"What?"

"I did sell him. I sold Sherlock to Jim Moriarty."

"What is this all about?" Mrs. Hudson inquired, trembling. She put her cup down. Mary blinked in surprise.

"I don't know, I... Wait, you sold your own brother to the enemy?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied evenly. "And I let Sherlock know. Indirectly, perhaps. Still, he was well aware."

"You're kidding me."

"Mycroft..." Mrs. Hudson murmured.

For goodness' sake, did that idiotic woman really have to spout all of this now, of all time? Mycroft sighed.

"I did not know it would turn out the way it did. I could never have known. I thought Sherlock would handle it differently. I underestimated Jim Moriarty. No, rather, I misunderstood his true goal." He took a sip of tea, his gaze vaguely thoughtful. "I did not think he would want Sherlock dead."

"What a joke," Mary spat.

"Mycroft, what are you saying?" Mrs. Hudson insisted, her voice quivering.

"Jim Moriarty was arrested... well, abducted by our services. In exchange for the crucial information we needed, he asked about Sherlock's childhood. Obviously he was up to no good, but I warned Sherlock about it. I warned him, and... My mistake was to be blind to the man's true character. His true purpose, too. I did not expect him to kill himself. Only for this reason did he manage to have Sherlock jump."

Mrs. Hudson was trembling, from grief of from rage, Mycroft could not tell. Mary was just staring at him, dumbstruck. She had apparently lost her voice.

"So you did sell him."

"I'm afraid I did," Mycroft confirmed grimly.

"That's awful."

"Well, yes, I–"

"For you, I meant."

"I beg your pardon?"

"How can you sleep?"

_I don't_, he thought. Well, just a little. Just the necessary. He was not insomniac like Sherlock, mind you. He was just a busy man. All the busier since his little brother's "death".

How would it have been if Sherlock had truly died? he wondered idly. If he too, like John, like Lestrade, like Mrs. Hudson, had had to go through a period of mourning?

"That's what I thought," Mary said softly. She held her steaming tea cup just below her chin, and the vapour was rising in thin volutes in front of her face. "John can be pretty selfish, sometimes. No, that's not right," she amended. "Self-centred, I'd say. Or maybe, rather, _Sherlock_-centred. You must understand. You lost a brother, and that's horrible. All the more so as you are partly responsible, even if indirectly. But John lost the love of his life. Oh, that sounds cheesy, but surely even you must realize how horrible it is. All the more so as he is partly responsible, even if _very_ indirectly. But he had to deal with the guilt and the pain and the unacceptable loss, too. You two should talk."

Mycroft stared, rather bewildered himself. That woman certainly was something. What, he couldn't quite say. But she spouted such nonsense so easily it was almost dazzling.

"Mrs. Watson... _Mary_. Why did you marry John Watson?" he inquired again.

"Because I loved him."

"Why are you still staying with him?"

"Because I love him."

"Even though he's in love with Sherlock?"

"Mycroft!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. Mary was smiling. Crying, too, Mycroft noticed. He felt no guilt at all. Only pity.

"Even though he's in love with Sherlock. I love him. I want to build a family with him."

Or admiration. Confusion, too. Was she stupid? Or beautiful?

"I see."

"No, you don't. That kind of love means nothing to you. But imagine you could revive Sherlock now. Imagine he came back to life. Wouldn't you want to protect him with everything you had? Wouldn't you want to control his life, like you always used to, but also to spend more time with him, possibly even try to get along? Wouldn't you give your life for his?"

Mycroft just looked at her, baffled.

"Mary, that's cruel," Mrs. Hudson let out in a murmur.

"Wouldn't you?" Mary insisted. "You would," she answered in his stance. "I know you would. You loved Sherlock. You love him." Then, as if the connection was perfectly logical: "I won't leave John for a basket of apples, if that's what you're asking. I'm fine giving up on apples for him."

"That is not what I–"

"And I'm fine letting Sherlock be the love of his life. Though I don't have much of a say in it anyway."

She laughed, of her weird, full, candid laugh. Yes, definitely daft, Mycroft mused._ Definitely dazzling. _

"Well, Mary, I think you and John are made for each other."

"Hey, what is that supposed to mean?!"

"Why, it is a compliment, naturally."

"Don't you lie to me, Mycroft! John told me the first thing you implied about him was that he was stupid!"

"I think I said brave."

"Same thing, according to you, isn't it?"

Mycroft simply gave her a smile. She snorted.

"Fine. I'll just be brave hence stupid then. I'll let you embody haughtiness all by yourself."

"Kids, kids, calm down," Mrs. Hudson chided fondly. Mycroft noticed her hand was still trembling. "I'll go make some more tea," she added, standing up and going to the kitchen.

"Actually I'm afraid I have to go, now," Mycroft said, standing as well. He followed Mrs. Hudson to the kitchen swiftly and took the tea pot from her, murmuring in her ear: "Should I come back some other day, if you'd like to talk?"

"Oh, you'd better come back, Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson whispered heatedly. Then out loud: "Oh well. Off you go, then."

"Really? It's still early!" Mary protested. She had dried her tears with her sleeve, Mycroft noticed.

"I'm a very busy man," he replied.

Mary scoffed.

"And I, a very busy woman. I'll be off too, then."

"Say hello to John for me, dear," Mrs. Hudson told her as she saw them to the door. "And you, Mycroft. Take good care of you."

"I will, Mrs. Hudson. You too."

He pressed her hand in his and responded to her smile. Mary was observing them, he could tell. With surprise, perhaps. Then again, Mycroft had quite a special relationship with the good landlady. Once she had closed the door, he turned to Mary, who stopped on the first step of the staircase to look back at him.

"You should tell him, you know," he said simply.

Mary's eyes widened a little. In the dark, she appeared even more exhausted. Yet her eyes shone with something rather unique; a glow so refreshing it was unsettling. But soon her face broke into a cheeky grin.

"Tell him that you're sorry and would love to speak to him again? Sure, Mycroft. Will do."

And with these words she ran up the stairs. A little smile glowed on Mycroft's lips fleetingly before he went out, opened his umbrella, and left under the rain. Soon, night would be falling.

* * *

><p><em>I'll let you save me, save me, save me tonight<br>Why don't you try to save me, save me tonight _

* * *

><p>Mycroft never dreamed. But lately he had some useless thoughts that crowded his mind unnecessarily. He knew it was due to the fear. The fear that Sherlock would not come back, after all.<p>

Of course he had many good reasons to come back to London, the first of all being: _John_. But if he had effectively deleted all feelings he ever had for the doctor, and for everyone who once mattered to him, then all reasons vanished. Even if he decided to resume being a consulting detective, he could do so anywhere in the world. He could remain incognito, too, to a certain extent. Perhaps not to the extent of Mycroft not being able to find him – especially if he did decide to be a consulting detective again – but at least in such a way that John would never hear of him again.

And that was what was torturing Mycroft. Sherlock was weak when it came to his heart. He had a heart, and he had no idea what to do with it, which was the worst possible way of dealing – or rather, of _not_ dealing – with it.

Moriarty too had known. Why would he have broken into such places? Symbolic places, like in fairy tales. But not only. He'd broken into them to show how worthless it was to him. To them. Mycroft had chosen power and comfort. Moriarty had chosen power and thrill. Sherlock... What had Sherlock chosen in the end? The thrill, and the spotlight? _No_, Mycroft mused gloomily. _An audience._ And not the safest one, either.

Why the Bank of England?

The Tower of London?

Pentonville Prison?

Money, power, law or penal code. The power of the rich, of the bloodline, of the State. Gold, jewels, a jail opening... Freedom. Dreams and shadows of what man could construe as happiness, or at least as what could make a man happy.

But it wasn't the places that mattered. It was the key. Nothing, _nothing_ in the Bank of England, the Tower of London, or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get one into all three. And that key was...

...some willing participants. _People_. Links with people. Relationships. Just like what Jim Moriarty had done with the jury. Connections. That was the key to I.O.U., too. Not any kind of web, but people linked by the oldest link of all. _The Gift_. Oh, not any kind of gift. The gift of anthropologists. The gift at the base of any society, even primitive. The basic link beyond blood relations. Giving, receiving. Being indebted. Having debtors. Overbidding, always. Those were the "friends" Jim Moriarty had created for himself. "Friends" who owed him so much he could have them fall whenever he wanted.

But Sherlock was different. Oh, Sherlock was different in all respects. Had he even understood, in the end? Certainly he had got the message of the stealing magpie. Like the magpie in Rossini's opera, I.O.U. was something nobody would ever think of. There were the "angels", the "devils", but all were ordinary, often stupid people. The magpie was above all of them. Acting nice, innocent; just a bird, almost an angel, with wings... but black wings. In fact, the perfect culprit. The culprit nobody would ever think of.

The key, the key to the final problem, to their final problem, had been relations. Links with people. What Mycroft and Moriarty had succeeded in doing, and where Sherlock had utterly failed. If his suicide had been so easy to plan, him so easy to be framed, it was because everyone wanted to see it happen. Everybody but Lestrade hated Sherlock at the Met. Everybody wanted his Fall.

Mycroft put his empty glass of brandy back on the table of his large, empty living-room. Everybody, indeed. Well, not exactly everybody. Some clients had stood up for him. And then of course, there was...

John. Mrs. Hudson, too. And Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Lestrade. Mycroft had not expected the D.I. to react so badly. The inspector had gone through a terrible depression, nothing like when his wife had left him for good. He hadn't even reacted when he had been transferred. It seemed he actually considered handing in his resignation. Greg Lestrade had nothing to envy John or Mycroft, as far as guilt was concerned. In fact, he'd probably been the one who had suffered the most from it. Guilt. Because Mycroft did feel it to a certain extent, but he knew Sherlock was not dead, so there was just so much to be feeling guilty about. John had certainly felt responsible for Sherlock's death, but he had known that Mycroft had had a hand in it too, and deeper than John's. He'd had someone to blame.

Detective Inspector Lestrade hadn't had anyone to blame but himself. It got worse when he discovered Sherlock hadn't been the culprit at all, not even in one of the cases he had solved. For a while, Mycroft had thought that Lestrade would be the one most likely to try to off himself, even more than John. He had lost everything. His wife, his job, his life in London, John's friendship, his colleague's respect, Mycroft's trust (or so he thought anyway), his own self-esteem, and the one great man he'd ever known and had hoped to be able to change one day.

Now Mycroft could not let that happen; Lestrade committing suicide. Or being miserable at all, really. First of all because Lestrade had been one of the three people Moriarty had targeted – one of the three people whom Moriarty had deemed _worthy_ of targeting. Lestrade had been one of the happy few to have reached Sherlock's heart.

He had been a good nanny, too. He had helped Sherlock get over the drugs. He had helped him through withdrawal with cases, had given him a good reason to come back to the world and to feel _worth something. _Useful, and (greatly) appreciated. All in all, Mycroft Holmes felt rather indebted to Greg Lestrade. And it was high time he paid his debt to him.

So just a few weeks after he had been transferred far from London, Mycroft had gone to visit him. Yes, he actually went through the trouble of going there himself. He had found Lestrade as destroyed and broken as ever, not even beginning to get better. He had offered him his job back, and had given him a reason to come back to the world. To feel worth something. He had asked him to clear Sherlock's name.

Not that it mattered to Mycroft in the least. He had much more important matters to attend – like making sure Sherlock was still alive, and as safe as he could be, and would come back home one day.

_Home_. Because that idiot did have a home. Mycroft closed his eyes in annoyance. That idiot.

_Do you even remember, Sherlock? Do you remember that you have one?_

* * *

><p><em>I thought I knew the answer was you<br>But now I know it's always me  
>So I'll take it down, I want to be found out<br>Everybody needs to be _

* * *

><p>Recently, Mycroft had come to highly doubt it. Sherlock seemed to have conveniently deleted any "unnecessary" information about London, Baker Street, and John. Not only John, of course; but his entire past life here, in 221B, since he had moved in with John.<p>

Admittedly, he had no time to bother thinking about his past. He must have been busy enough with the present, and perhaps the (close) future. And then? Then...

Mycroft shook his head. He would not let his baby brother go back to his first mistress – namely, cocaine – just because he had thought it good to delete everything and everyone that had mattered to him and which had made a difference. People who had changed him.

Well, perhaps other people were changing him now. Mycroft's brow clouded. _Sebastian Moran_. He did not like Moriarty's lapdog hovering over Sherlock, especially when said lapdog was rather fierce; deathly, even.

The last time Sherlock had been spotted, it was in a small village in Bohemia, in the Czech Republic. Karlštejn, right at the foot of the castle. Casimir Brown and his partner Jude White had stayed for three nights in four-star hotel Karlštejn to attend the wedding of a friend at the castle, Michael Lewis, marrying Lucy Hupaetos. In fact, during this weekend, all the hotels in the area had been booked by either friends or family of the couple.

Mycroft was quite confused about Sherlock's reason for being there at such a time. He had identified his brother as being Casimir Brown, and his "partner" of course had been none other than Moran. But Mycroft had looked into the lives of all other individuals present in the village or at the wedding, and he had found no connection with I.O.U. whatsoever. Sherlock's presence in Karlštejn was incomprehensible. It remained a mystery.

It was conceivable that he had merely attended the wedding to have a safe address to give Wiggins for his next message – which was how Mycroft had found out about it in the first place. Still, it seemed overly complicated just to receive some news from his informants in London. Mycroft was quite certain Sherlock had had another reason to be there.

But none among the guests had been linked to his current situation, nor to his past. Furthermore, nothing extraordinary had happened: no murder, no crime had been reported to anyone. If something had happened in Karlštejn during that weekend, it had remained a well-kept secret.

What could have brought Sherlock – no, _Moriarty_ – to such a God-forsaken place? Beautiful, mind you, but still just a village in the forest, 40 kilometres away from Prague. He hadn't even stopped in Prague, either before or after the wedding.

Mycroft had considered several possibilities, naturally. First of all, perhaps what truly mattered had not been where Sherlock had been at that time, but rather where he had _not_ been. Considering Moran had been with him, it might well be that Sherlock had simply wanted Moran away from a certain place – London, for instance – at this specific time. The wedding might have simply been a convenient opportunity.

But Sherlock had had time to tell Wiggins about it so he could write to him there. He had planned it. Which means it had not just come up as a last minute, welcome opportunity. _He had planned it_.

Perhaps, then, he had met someone there, someone who had nothing to do with the wedding. A mere visitor, perhaps, whose name would not appear anywhere. Or maybe someone there had a fake identity, just like Mr. Brown and Mr. White. _Such idiotic aliases_, Mycroft mused darkly. What was Sherlock playing at?

Mycroft closed his eyes. In Hotel Karlštejn, Sherlock and Moran had shared a double superior room – that is, a deluxe room with _one_ double bed. Mycroft frowned. He really did not like this. The hotel offered eleven rooms. The ten other rooms had been occupied during those nights by the groom's parents, three of his cousins, his childhood friend and best man, the bride's brother and his wife, the bride's colleague and matron of honour with her husband, two friends from schools with their husbands, and then three couples of friends (including Brown and White) of the bride and groom. Finally, the bride and groom themselves. It seems the groom was not as well-off as the bride, and considering the wealth of _her_ family, it was almost amusing to see they had chosen such a location for their wedding. But Michael Lewis had moved to Prague when he was but a child, his parents had bought a mansion in the countryside, and apparently it had always been his dream to marry in Karlštejn castle. This was all fine. Still Mycroft could not fathom what these people could have to do with his little brother.

The guest list of other near-by accommodation had not been any more conclusive. Nor had been the staff. Unless, of course, one of them had been one of Sherlock's informants. In the end, there was no way to know, and for once that he had managed to locate Sherlock, Mycroft was quite upset about not being able to get more out of it.

One element that worried him most was the nature of Sherlock's relationship with Moran. According to what Mycroft knew, this was not the first time they shared a room. Of course, in all likelihood, Sherlock did not trust Moran, and wanted him by his side at all times whenever he could manage. Still there was something disturbing about the fact. Something that gave Mycroft a _bad feeling_. Even if that had been the original reason for Sherlock to keep Moran near him, the sniper was like poison. He had been Moriarty's henchman. He had been Moriarty's _John Watson_. There was no doubt where his allegiance lay. It was understandable that Sherlock would want him far from John as often as possible; but the only way to make sure of this was to have him by his own side. And who knew what damage Moran could do, living in the same room as Sherlock?

Mycroft had come to fear the worst. Sebastian Moran was, after all, the only one Sherlock could truly count on. And Mycroft hated him. Hated him for having that role when it should have been _his_. Naturally Mycroft could not go with Sherlock. But he could have been there for him, had Sherlock requested it. Had he accepted it.

But more than anyone, it was Jim Moriarty whom Mycroft hated the most. For having caught Sherlock's interest. For having replaced Mycroft as Sherlock's "archenemy". For having taken Sherlock from him. For having considered _John_ a rival, and not Mycroft – as if telling him he was not worth being considered a rival, since Sherlock cared so little for him. _He is your heart, Mr. Holmes. He is your heart, but you're not his. I will use him against you. But I cannot use you against him_. _You belong to his past_.

* * *

><p><em>I'll let you save me, save me, save me tonight<br>Why don't you try to save me, save me tonight _

* * *

><p><em>"<em>Snow White. 'White as snow, rosy as blood, and whose hair was as black as ebony.' Isn't it just your portrait?" Salome asked Casimir with a smile.

_"_His spitting image," Jude commented.

_"_Salome, why are you not with your husband?"

_"_He is in the sauna with Lizzie."

_"_Oh."

_"_Miss Elizabeth? Who would have guessed?" Jude said, laughing.

_"_I encouraged her, of course."

_"_Are you sleeping with her husband?"

Salome glared at Jude.

_"_Did you see him?" she asked disdainfully. Then, turning to Casimir: "Why is _he_ here? I thought we could spend some time alone, just the two of us."

_"_Yeah, that's why I'm here."

_"_What an unpleasant man."

_"_Aw, that's tough, Mrs. Hupaetos."

_"_Where are you going?" she asked Casimir as he stood up and walked to the door.

_"_Far from you two. You're giving me a headache."

_"_Don't be so nervous, _Casimir_," Jude cooed. "We're not going to lay you forcefully or anything."

Casimir sent him an icy look which silenced him effectively. "May I suggest you visit the sauna to quench your sexual urge, White, and come back when you have cooled down?"

_"_That would be nice," Salome chimed in with a smile.

_"_And why don't you go as well, Mrs. Hupaetos?" Casimir added coldly. "Surely it wouldn't be right for us to stay together alone in the same room."

_"_Oh, I see. You want to write to London. Come on, Mrs. Hupaetos, he won't want us around for that. He writes poems, you see."

_"_Poems?" she echoed, disbelieving. "To whom?"

_"_Not to the one he would like, I'm afraid."

_"_Out, the two of you. Why don't you go and accidentally drown in the whirlpool?"

_"_Now, now, don't be a twat, Casi. You need us. You know you do," Jude said with a Cheshire cat-like smile as he put his hand on the door handle.

_"_For now, yes."

_"_The whirlpool does sound nice. There mustn't be anyone in at this hour. I'll be right there with you, Mr. White."

Salome and Jude exchanged a look, and for one second one might have thought that White would not go out and leave the woman and his 'partner' alone. Eventually, he sighed, shrugged, and left the room. Once his footsteps had quieted down the corridor, Salome spoke again, still facing the door.

_"_Did you hear?"

_"_What?"

_"_He is having a child."

_"_Are you talking about John Watson?"

Irene turned to Sherlock and stared.

_"_Who else?"

_"_It could have been a number of other people."

She decided to ignore that last answer and went to open the window.

_"_So you knew," she said, looking out at the night.

_"_I heard, yes."

They fell silent. She lit a cigarette as he started scribbling something on a piece of paper.

_"_Wouldn't you want a child?" she asked.

_"_You are not seriously asking, are you."

He certainly wasn't. She glanced at him.

_"_I don't either. Still, doesn't it feel weird?"

_"_What?"

_"_That soon he will be a father."

_"_I don't have time for this. Won't you leave me alone?"

_"_I don't want to."

He looked up from his paper and met her gaze. She extended her hand, handing him the cigarette. He focused on what he was writing again and finished scribbling something on the piece of paper before folding it and putting it into an envelope which he pocketed. Then he took the letter he had received from Wiggins and joined the Woman at the window.

_"_Do you have a lighter?"

Without answering or even nodding, she took her lighter out. He held his hand out of the window, still holding Wiggins' letter. Without a word, she extended her hand as well, and set light to it. They watched it burn in the silence of the night. He held it until the flames had completely consumed it, ignoring how his fingers reddened and darkened. Then he rubbed his hands to get rid of the traces of ashes.

In the room, only the desk lamp was casting some light and shadows. Irene's cigarette shone bright at the window, a small dot of red light in the black of the night. Her eyes were still fixed where the letter had been just a minute before.

_"_Not everything can burn as easily," she murmured. She gave the man her cigarette. This time, he took it. Then she turned, leaving the night behind her, walking to the door in a swirl of ivory and sea-green fabric.

The man did not turn when she left the room, closing the door behind her. He simply gazed out the window, smoking into the silent night.

* * *

><p><em>I feel nothing you feel everything<br>And you give me something that I can defend  
>In the end <em>

* * *

><p>Mycroft closed the window to his room, not drawing the curtains, letting the moon light cast a silvery trapezium on the carpet. Mary Morstan – no, Mrs. Watson – had mentioned it when he had texted her about her dreams concerning Sherlock. The moon.<p>

Mycroft never texted, but for this very reason, he thought this was less likely to catch John's attention. Had he called Mrs. Watson, the doctor would certainly have found out eventually, even if she did not tell him directly. This way, however, Mary could answer him freely, whenever she felt like it.

She had told him about the moon, trains, flowers, and snow. _White as snow, rosy as blood, and whose hair was as black as ebony._ Mycroft closed his eyes.

In his office now his eyes stopped just a little too long on white sheets of paper. They lingered just a little too much on the red curtains. They drifted in the blackness of ink and shoes and shadows.

Mycroft was, of course, busy as ever. He had put under surveillance the flat Sebastian Moran occupied when he was in London. To no avail. Moran must have known it would be bugged, and although he acted very freely, not bothering to put clothes on when he went from his bed to his shower or to make coffee in the morning, he still did nothing that could be of any interest to Mycroft. He cleaned weapons, sometimes, but never left them in the flat when he was not in himself. He did not have dreams at night, or at least did not appear to have any. He did not call any name. He did not phone anyone. He did not write to anyone.

He read, sometimes. Fairy tales, librettos... and the books Harry Watson, Christiane Davis, or Mary Morstan – no, Mary Watson – read. Mycroft had only found this out because Mary had mentioned her readings in a text when he had asked her where the train and the moon came from. _A Passage to India. _Then she had deemed interesting to tell him all about the books she read. Mycroft could not care less, but he did not have to answer all of her texts, and he did not want to be rude to her. Some of the books she mentioned had been recommended by Harry or Christiane. All of them had been or were on Sebastian Moran's bedside table.

Other than that, there wasn't much in the sniper's flat. Maps of London, and then a series of decorative books or magazines, just there to give a semblance of life to the rooms. To give the impression that it was inhabited. There was always food in the fridge. Name cards – mostly women's – scattered around for everyone to see, or inside a slightly open drawer. Train or plane tickets to Paris, where his latest girlfriend was supposed to be. Some DVDs. A lot of CDs. Some music he only played on his laptop, and apparently he was keen on leaving no trace of them there either. _La gazza ladra. _A lot of Bach. The Bee Gees. Lately, he had started playing the guitar, too. He was good enough, and was learning so to speak. Just practising. One day, he had just come into his flat with his usual weapon case, and a guitar.

It seemed they had talked about fairy tales with Mary. She told Mycroft by text that she couldn't possibly talk much about it with John, considering the part it had played in Sherlock's demise. But she liked fairy tales. She'd been reading Angela Carter's _Bloody Chamber_, and of course that wasn't something she could discuss with her pupils either. So she had lent him the book. Sure enough, it had ended on his bedside table. Mycroft had taken a look at it in a bookshop. He had found it tragically ironic for Mary to be the one to lend such a book to Sebastian Moran. Ironically macabre.

Mycroft was still trying to figure out what had been the point for Sherlock to attend Michael Lewis's wedding in Karlštejn. He could not exclude the possibility that he had been there in a matter related to the Evil Queen herself, but there had been no trace of her in the Czech Republic at this time. Only Moran had been by Sherlock's side.

Again, Mycroft furrowed his brow at the thought as he left the Diogenes Club to head back to his own quarters. Suddenly his phone rang. It wasn't a call, but an alarm. An alert indicating that someone had broken into his flat. He frowned. Now, that was something new. Of course he did not have anything of any value at all, whether sentimental, financial, or professional in his flat. It was merely a place where he slept and sometimes, ate. The Diogenes Club was a much safer place to keep anything. Mycroft's flat simply provided accommodation. He did not have a special security system to prevent robbers or such to break in – such a system would have only betrayed that something valuable was kept inside. He had, however, put it under surveillance, and was presently checking the cameras in his flat on his phone. As he crossed Pall Mall, he saw a light in his living-room and in his kitchen. He viewed the camera of his kitchen on his phone, and frowned when he saw the back of a woman apparently preparing dinner. Her hair was tied in a bun under a kerchief, and for all he knew, she could have been a cook or a cleaning lady.

His eyes turned cold. Nobody knew he, Sherlock's brother, the British Government, lived there. In this flat, he was just Mycroft Holmes, a quiet man with a small position in the government. There was no reason anyone would want to break into his flat. When he pushed the entrance door, he saw the coat of a woman on one of the hall stands. He hung his umbrella before walking down the corridor to the kitchen. On none of the recordings he had seen the woman's face, but he had seen that she could not possibly have had a weapon on her – unless it was poison. But it was not like he intended to actually eat whatever she was preparing.

When he entered the kitchen, it was empty. It smelled like Chinese food – not the one you find in London or anywhere in England, but the one you taste in China alone. The sound of someone setting a table came from the living-room. Slowly, Mycroft went in. The table had indeed been dressed, with a candle in the middle. The woman placed a knife next to the chopsticks near one of the two plates, then turned to Mycroft casually. Her lips were painted red. Blood red. She smiled.

_"_Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

><p><em>I'll let you save me, save me, save me tonight<br>Why don't you save me, save me, save me tonight _

* * *

><p><em>"<em>Have you lost your tongue? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"

_"_Good evening, Ms. Adler," Mycroft finally said.

_"_I took the liberty to come in early to prepare something to eat. I hope you're hungry. Would you like to have dinner with me, Mr. Holmes?"

_"_What are you doing here?"

_"_I came to speak with you, of course. Would you like to have something to drink?"

_"_I meant in London. _Alive. _And no thank you."

_"_Oh." She faked surprise. "Didn't Sherlock tell you? I think he has become a specialist in simulating death."

_"_I can tell, yes," Mycroft replied rather coldly. "Did he send you here?"

She looked appalled. "Of course not! He has no idea I've come to see you."

_"_So you are in London alone?" Why hadn't he noticed her? Well, to be fair, he hadn't been looking for her. At all.

_"_Not exactly. Do you like Chinese food? This is a specialty from Shanghai. My maid gave me the recipe."

_"_I am not very hungry, but I will sit with you."

_"_How rude. After I went through the trouble to prepare all of this."

_"_You broke into my flat."

_"_Well I didn't have the keys now, did I?"

She went to the kitchen and came back with a divine smelling dish which she put on the hot pad in the centre of the table.

_"_It's not poisoned, if that's what is worrying you. I wouldn't have gone through the trouble of coming to see you if I only wanted you dead. And why would I?"

_"_Why did you come?"

_"_My husband is staying in London on business for a few days."

_"_Why did you come _here_?"

She sat at the table and took off her kerchief anther apron. She was wearing a dress the colour other lips. Her face was painted in the same way it had been that night she had believed to have beaten Sherlock Holmes.

_"_Any news from John?" she asked casually.

_"_He is fine."

_"_Good. That's good to hear. His wife?"

_"_Very well."

_"_Have you met her? Lovely, isn't she?"

_"_I suppose _you_ have met her, then?"

_"_Only once."

_"_And may I ask who your husband is?"

She smiled thinly as she served him.

_"_Samuel Hupaetos."

The glimmer in her eyes told Mycroft she knew this was the last piece of the puzzle he needed to make sense of Sherlock's little excursion in Karlštejn. His face became even colder.

_"_I trust you to be discreet about this. Your brother needs me. You wouldn't want anything bad to happen to me."

_"_Of course not. What did you want to discuss?"

_"_Do you know where Sherlock is?"

Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

_"_Don't you?"

_"_I do. I am asking if _you_ do, Mr. Holmes."

_"_Not at the moment," he admitted reluctantly.

_"_I see. Tell me Mr. Holmes, do you have anything on your mind lately? Something bothering you?"

_"_You mean apart from Sherlock?"

_"_What is it about him that bothers you?"

Mycroft stared.

_"_I'm afraid I do not quite see your point, Ms. Adler."

_"_Answer me, and you will see it."

Mycroft's eyes turned to slits.

_"_What do you want from me, Ms. Adler?"

Irene sighed wearily.

_"_You really are uncooperative. Such a pity."

She put her chopsticks down and stood up to leave. Mycroft looked at her in puzzlement as she truly seemed about to go just like this. His expression became darker.

_"_His return," he said finally. Irene stopped in her track and turned back.

_"_See, it wasn't that difficult," she noted. Mycroft remained quiet.

_"_Is there anything you would like to let me know?" he inquired coolly.

_"_Mm, where should I begin?" She smirked. Mycroft did not bat an eyelid. Apparently disappointed that her teasing did not strike a chord, Irene went on: "He won't come back, you know. Not as things are."

_"_As things are?"

She looked at him pointedly.

_"_He doesn't have anything to come back to."

Mycroft frowned slightly.

_"_Because 221B is already occupied?"

She shook her head. "Because there is no reason, to him, that he should go back to 221B. Don't you understand?"

_"_He no longer cares, does he?"

_"_I don't know. I think not. He won't come back."

They fell silent. Irene kept eating gracefully, and Mycroft was staring at his plate, pensive.

_"_Why did you come to tell me this?"

_"_Because maybe you will find a way."

_"_To make him come back?" Mycroft snorted. "I'm afraid you overestimate my authority upon him, Ms. Adler."

_"_To make him remember," she corrected smoothly.

_"_I still fail to see how I would be the best person for such a mission."

_"_Because he wouldn't expect it. Not from you. Plus, you could lie to him."

_"_So could you."

_"_No, Mr. Holmes. You could lie to him, and he believe you."

Mycroft looked out the window of his living-room. The curtains hadn't been drawn. Tonight the moon wasn't visible.

_"_It isn't time yet."

_"_If you say so."

She checked her watch.

_"_I'm afraid I have been here for too long already. I did not expect you to come home so late."

_"_Well, if you had made your visit known in advance, I–"

_"_Won't you see me to the door?"

Mycroft stared, rather annoyed at being cut off.

_"_Certainly," he said, standing.

As he held her coat for her, she slipped a card in his pocket.

_"_If you absolutely need to contact me, send an email to this address. I cannot guarantee you will get an answer promptly. But this will be the quickest and safest way to reach me."

_"_Fine. I will send you my contact details, then. Needless to say, it would be better for the both of us if you did not write or came back to this address."

_"_Needless to say, indeed."

She turned towards him one last time before opening the door.

_"_You can count on me, Mr. Holmes. I owe him, but unlike everyone else, it is to Sherlock Holmes that I am indebted. It is him I wish to see again someday in London. I hope I will be able to count on you."

And with these words, the Woman was gone.

* * *

><p><em>I'll let you save me, save me, save me tonight<br>Why don't you try to save me_

* * *

><p>Mycroft retraced his steps to the living-room, deep in thought. He put the content of his plate back into the dish and took it away, storing it in the refrigerator. In the same mechanic, absent-minded manner, he undressed the table.<p>

Mycroft Holmes never had nightmares. Sometimes, however, he did get what one may call bad omens. A hunch. Mycroft did not appreciate it in the least. What he hated even more than the hunch itself was when the rational part of his brain found good reasons to support this negative impression.

But what was even worse than rationalizing was when the facts themselves confirmed his fears. Not merely dark figures looming over Sherlock; but darkness effectively eating him away from the inside.

Mycroft went back to the living-room, turned off the light and pulled the curtains. Then slowly, he walked to the table and stared at the flame of the candle.

_"_It isn't time yet," he said to himself. "But soon." He put out the candle."Soon, Sherlock," he murmured to the darkness.

Mycroft hated bad omens. But what Mycroft hated the most was when bad omens became facts.

* * *

><p><em>Save me tonight <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	37. Age quod agis

**A.N.:** **In Homer's _Odyssey_, the lotus tree bore a fruit that caused a pleasant drowsiness and was the only food of an island people called the Lotophagi or Lotus-eaters. When they ate of the lotus tree they would forget their friends and homes and would lose their desire to return to their native land in favour of living in idleness. (Wikipedia) The italicized passages in the first scene of this chapter are direct quotes from Pope's translation of this episode (Book IX of the _Odyssey_).**

**The fairy tale is directly quoted from Joseph Jacob, _Indian Fairy Tales._**

**Thank you to all reviewers! Hope you enjoy this chapter :)**

[_To MonaLisa:__ thank you for your comment. I will take the "giggling" issue into account. As for John being stubborn, well... It's John ;) And I think there are some things Mary wouldn't be that keen to point out to him._]

**...**

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_**_  
><em>

_**Age quod agis: **_"_Do what you are doing", "to the business at hand"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXXVI: Age quod agis<strong>

_Starting now, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I want to crawl back inside my mother's womb<br>I want to shut out all the lights in this room  
>I want to start fresh, like a baby in a sink<br>Scrub away all these thoughts that I think of you_

* * *

><p>Ueno Park is so big a park one can easily spend an entire day strolling through it. Of course, the man presently sitting on a bench, gazing at the Shinobazu Pond, did not have an entire day to spend on anything as trivial as a stroll. At first glance, he could have been taken for one of the homeless men scattered here and there throughout the park. But on second glance, it was very unlikely, for most of those in that situation were Japanese, and the man was clearly not.<p>

But sitting there alone on this bench at night, it was hard to believe that he might just some tourist. He did not look like the romantic, solitary type either, which could have accounted for his presence in such a place at such a time. Looking at the lotus pond could be a lovely thing to do, but as it was evening one could hardly appreciate the scenery. All in all, the place was rather deserted. It was strange for a man to be there at this hour if he was not homeless.

Yet here Sherlock was, sitting on the bench, looking at the pond. He was enjoying the quietness and the cool evening air; it felt almost warm against his cold skin, but not quite. It wasn't just dark, it felt dark. He could just close his eyes and smell the night in the silence of the park.

The night, and perhaps the lotus, too.

There was that episode about the Lotus tree in the Odyssey, he remembered. Odysseus and his companions came to an island and Odysseus sent a few men to talk to the people of that land. The Lotus-eaters. But then the sailors ate from the lotus tree and everything went wrong. Sherlock opened his eyes.

_Nine days our fleet the uncertain tempest bore  
>Far in wide ocean, and from sight of shore:<br>The tenth we touch'd, by various errors toss'd,  
>The land of Lotus and the flowery coast. <em>

Waiting here in the silence the nagging feeling that had been bothering him all day was becoming uncomfortably stronger. Strange thoughts about someone somewhere – London, perhaps? – eating from the nonexistent Lotus tree.

_They went, and found a hospitable race:  
>Not prone to ill, nor strange to foreign guest,<br>They eat, they drink, and nature gives the feast  
>The trees around them all their food produce.<em>

Sherlock was no fool. But he hadn't thought of deleting some things that now became a bother. A bother in moments such as this one. Recently he'd even thought he'd heard his ex-landlady's voice on the street. The way a man ran a hand in his hair had reminded him of another grey-haired man who'd been part of his life once. _Which life?_

_Lotus the name: divine, nectareous juice!  
>Which whose taste...<em>

It was funny. Even the Woman's gesture that time at the window in the hotel. Handing him a cigarette. How reversible life was.

_...insatiate riots in the sweet repasts,  
>Nor other home, nor other care intends<em>

Maybe the air was actually warm. Sherlock was not sure why it had seemed cool before. Now it definitely felt warm, almost too warm against his skin.

_But quits his house, his country, and his friends. _

He closed his eyes. Back in the recesses of his mind, somewhere among the waves of the tempest surrounding his archipelago, there was the trace of a smile, the shadow of a movement of the hand, some very pale yet powerful halo, diffuse over the foam. He played with it like he used to play with danger, feeling no thrill but somehow managing to thus dispel the unease and the hint of boredom threatening to eat away the margins of his mental world.

_The three we sent, from off the enchanting ground  
>We dragg'd reluctant, and by force we bound.<em>

Sherlock was remembered of that time in Molly's flat when he'd been waiting to leave and there was nothing to do but to think of pointless things, because all the important ones had been dealt with. As he had this last thought, he could tell something wasn't quite right in the reasoning, but upon examining it, could not see where the flaw was in his logic. Perhaps there was no flaw after all.

"Hello, Sexy."

He had felt the shadow coming towards him in his back, but had decided against moving just yet. When it finally spoke, though, he took his gaze away from the darkness of the pond and his eyes met a night-blue Westwood suit.

"I've been waiting here for you all day long," he remarked. There was no reproach in his voice; not even threat. Just a cold weariness, as if the reply had been expected of him. It simply came naturally as he stood up and began to walk.

"But the work is done! I was good this time, really. And Sherlock, dear, _I'_ve been waiting for _you_ all my life!"

The dramatic and ostensibly aiming-at-being-comical exclamation did not reach Sherlock. He was thinking about something else. About the name Moran had used.

"You've never waited for something, Seb," he finally said. "Not for anything. Not for anyone."

Moran stood still for a moment. But Sherlock, if he'd noticed, was not waiting for him, and Sebastian soon followed again.

"What a foul mood you're in..." he muttered.

They walked in silence for a while. Then Seb broke it again, with his usual air of innocence.

"D'you know what lays under the Lotus tree, Sherlock?"

Maybe Sherlock was deep in thoughts; or maybe he just decided to ignore his companion. He did not reply. This did not seem to put Moran off, however, and on he went, lightly.

"Job said it. 40:21-22."

A snort escaped Sherlock. Soft. Cold.

"Gospel truth, now, is it?" he asked quietly.

_The rest in haste forsook the pleasing shore_

This time it was Sebastian who ignored him. Or perhaps he hadn't expected Sherlock's participating in his little monologue, and his next line had been so well-prepared that he just couldn't let go. So in he leant and whispered against black curls:

"The Behemoth, Sherlock."

The taller man gave him a look.

_Or, the charm tasted, had return'd no more. _

* * *

><p><em>So life moves slowly when you're waiting for it to boil<br>Feel like I watch from 6 feet under the soil  
>Still want to hold you and kiss behind your ears<br>But I recount the countless tears that I lost for you_

* * *

><p>"Are you upset that he's no longer upset?" Seb suddenly asked one night when they were in bed. That was the only bed in the hotel room. Sherlock had considered telling Seb to sleep on the floor, like he'd done once for John Watson when they had been on a case that involved soap and poison and required that they spent the night in the bedroom of the victim.<p>

But then he had pictured the complete scenario in his mind. Sebastian would pout and sulk and still come in the bed. Sherlock would point a gun at him and tell him to get off. Sebastian would refuse, maybe not openly, but one way or the other, he wouldn't comply. And Sherlock couldn't possibly shoot him. Yet.

Since the power play was bound to end up with a loss on Sherlock's part, he simply got used to Moran's little theatrics and pretended not to care about him sleeping in the same bed. With time, in fact, he had truly grown accustomed to it, and it really no longer mattered.

"Do you always have to speak out of the blue and out of context _in the middle of the night_?"

"But you weren't sleeping!"

"That's not the point."

"Then what's the point?"

"Talking to you is tiring," Sherlock deadpanned, turning to face the other side.

"What?! That's so mean, Sherlock!"

Silence. If he didn't answer, perhaps the other would just get tired of it, too. It would be nice if the sparring stopped at least a few hours a day. Even if, Sherlock knew, it was a fight of every instant in the end. A fight to the death.

"So, are you?"

Silence.

"I suppose you are. I would be, too, I guess. Maybe."

Silence.

"Or maybe not. Who knows?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

"Stop pretending to be sleeping, it's annoying!"

_Stop pretending to be stupid, it's annoying._ Yet again: silence.

Seb sighed and let his head fall back on the pillow with a soft thud. Sherlock hadn't realized he'd sat up until then.

"You're an idiot. You don't know what you want. It's annoying, so bloody annoying."

"I know what I want."

"Oh, really?" Behind the sarcasm, Sherlock could hear the beaming – Moran was happy he had managed to make him speak.

"Yes, really."

"What do you want, then?"

"You to shut up."

"Oh, that was an easy one! An easy one, Sherlock, not worthy of you."

A few months before, Sherlock would have snorted or scoffed at this. Now it elicited no response from him at all.

"It was a stupid question anyway," Seb mumbled.

_Glad to hear you say so. _

"After all, I already know you're upset. It's so obvious even an idiot could see it."

_Indeed. _

"I'm not saying I'm an idiot, mind you!"

_Of course. _

"Can't you just answer me properly instead of doing it in your head?"

_No._

Sebastian sighed. Sherlock wondered if it was just one of his habits, one he'd got with Moriarty perhaps, or if it was just _Sherlock_ that made him sigh like that.

"You really shouldn't worry about John forgetting you and everything. He clearly hasn't, you know. Well, you don't, but I'm telling you. Your informants are idiots, they don't live with him, they're not close to him. Or maybe you're just the one inducing stupid things from what they're telling you, but–"

"Shut up, Seb."

"But seriously you shouldn't be so upset about something that's in your imagination! I mean sure, he thinks you're dead, you're the one who made certain that he did believe it! What can you expect?"

"Seb."

"I know him. I've been close to him. You know I have. You never said anything about it, but you must know. Your informants, they must've told you. So _I _can tell you. He's not forgotten you. He hasn't erased you at all. That's what _you_ are trying to do to keep going."

A few months before, Sherlock would've snapped. "_I know him" _?

Maybe he really would have shot him then. Or at least knocked him out. But not now.

Now, he knew how to play.

He turned to him with a blank face and a scene from long ago, on another bed, with another man, briefly flashed across his field of vision.

"I'll tell you a fairy tale, Seb," he said patronizingly. "It's called _A Lesson for Kings_. It's from India."

Moran arched an eyebrow in the dark. Sherlock considered mimicking his sweet, innocent voice, but eventually decided against it. He wanted to play as he wished. To lead the game. And to win.

"Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the future Buddha returned to life as his son and heir. And when the day came for choosing a name, they called him Prince Brahma-datta. He grew up in due course; and when he was sixteen years old, went to Takkasila, and became accomplished in all arts. And after his father died he ascended the throne, and ruled the kingdom with righteousness and equity. He gave judgments without partiality, hatred, ignorance, or fear. Since he thus reigned with justice, with justice also his ministers administered the law. Law-suits being thus decided with justice, there were none who brought false cases. And as these ceased, the noise and tumult of litigation ceased in the king's court. Though the judges sat all day in the court, they had to leave without any one coming for justice. It came to this, that the Hall of Justice would have to be closed.

Then the future Buddha thought, 'It cannot be from my reigning with righteousness that none come for judgment; the bustle has ceased, and the Hall of Justice will have to be closed. I must, therefore, now examine into my own faults; and if I find that anything is wrong in me, put that away, and practise only virtue.'

Thenceforth he sought for someone to tell him his faults, but among those around him he found no one who would tell him of any fault, but heard only his own praise.

Then he thought, 'It is from fear of me that these men speak only good things, and not evil things,' and he sought among those people who lived outside 'the palace. And finding no fault-finder there, he sought among those who lived outside the city, in the suburbs, at the four gates. And there too finding no one to find fault, and hearing only his own praise, he determined to search the country places.

So he made over the kingdom to his ministers, and mounted his chariot; and taking only his charioteer, left the city in disguise. And searching the country through, up to the very boundary, he found no fault-finder, and heard only of his own virtue; and so he turned back from the outermost boundary, and returned by the high road towards the city.

Now at that time the king of Kosala, Mallika by name, was also ruling his kingdom with righteousness; and when seeking for some fault in himself, he also found no faultfinder in the palace, but only heard of his own virtue! So seeking in country places, he too came to that very spot. And these two came face to face in a low cart-track with precipitous sides, where there was no space for a chariot to get out of the way.

Then the charioteer of Mallika the king said to the charioteer of the king of Benares, 'Take thy chariot out of the way!'

But he said, 'Take thy chariot out of the way, O charioteer! In this chariot sitteth the lord over the kingdom of Benares, the great king Brahma-datta.'

Yet the other replied, 'In this chariot, O charioteer, sitteth the lord over the kingdom of Kosala, the great king Mallika. Take thy carriage out of the way, and make room for the chariot of our king!'

Then the charioteer of the king of Benares thought, 'They say then that he too is a king! What is now to be done?' After some consideration, be said to himself, 'I know a way. I'll find out how old he is, and then I'll let 'the chariot of the younger be got out of the way, and so make room for the elder.'

And when he had arrived at that conclusion, he asked that charioteer what the age of the king of Kosala was. But on inquiry he found that the ages of both were equal. Then he inquired about the extent of his kingdom, and about his army, and his wealth, and his renown, and about the country he lived in, and his caste and tribe and family. And he found that both were lords of a kingdom three hundred leagues in extent; and that in respect of army and wealth and renown, and the countries in which they lived, and their caste and their tribe and their family, they were just on a par.

Then he thought, 'I will make way for the most righteous.' And he asked, 'What kind of righteousness has this king of yours.'

Then the charioteer of the king of Kosala, proclaiming his king's wickedness as goodness, uttered the First Stanza:

'The strong he overthrows by strength,  
>The mild by mildness, does Mallika;<br>The good he conquers by goodness,  
>And the wicked by wickedness too.<br>Such is the nature of this king!  
>Move out of the way, O charioteer '<p>

But the charioteer of the king of Benares asked him, 'Well, have you told all the virtues of your king?'

'Yes,' said the other.

'If these are his virtues, where are then his faults?' replied he.

The other said, 'Well, for the nonce they shall be faults, if you like! But pray, then, what is the kind of goodness your king has?'

And then the charioteer of the king of Benares called unto him to hearken, and uttered the Second Stanza:

'Anger he conquers by calmness,  
>And by goodness the wicked;<br>The stingy he conquers by gifts,  
>And by truth the speaker of lies.<br>Such is the nature of this king!  
>'Move out of the way, O charioteer!'<p>

And when he had thus spoken, both Mallika the king and his charioteer alighted from their chariot. And they took out the horses, and removed their chariot, and made way for the king of Benares!"

Perhaps Sebastian understood the message.

Or maybe he'd long fallen asleep. In any case, he said no other words that night.

* * *

><p><em>But before you finally go there's one thing you should know: <em>

_That I promise -_

_Starting now I'll never know your name  
>Starting now I'll never feel the same<br>Starting now I wish you never came into my world._

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, this is so much fun!"<p>

"We're not here for _fun_, Seb."

"God, you're so boring. Here, look through these!"

With a huge, silly grin, Moran waved eggplants with a hole in them in front of Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock stared.

"I heard them say that if you look at the Okuribi through a hole cut in an eggplant you will not suffer from illnesses of the eye!" he exclaimed.

"You don't understand Japanese, Seb."

"It was a couple of tourists talking," he protested.

"Just move, you're being a hindrance."

"Really? I was just trying to be nice to you blind man, y'know..."

Here it was again. That voice. It was a little reminiscent of that of the Woman, in a rougher way; still, noticeably playful. Teasing. _Sadistic._

"You are a fool. The Okuribi are the fires. They haven't even been lit yet."

"Oh well, then I guess you'll just remain blind. Ah, look! They're starting to light up the one on Daimonji-yama!"

Sherlock looked up. They were, indeed.

"We should've worn yukatas," Moran moaned, now playing with an apple.

"This is not carnival, Seb."

"But it's a festival! And there was a carnival earlier!"

Sherlock's gaze shifted to the other people standing on the restaurant's roof terrace with them. He should have been here by now.

"But you know, I think they've got a pretty funny sense of humour, those IOU folks," Seb commented. Sherlock did not reply. "I mean, O-Bon? And the Daimonji to boot? The moment when the spirits of the dead go back to their own wor–"

"Thank you, Seb, I really hadn't realized. Could you please shut up, now?"

"God, you're so tense. Relax!"

"Don't touch me."

The couple next to them was starting to stare. Sebastian smiled sweetly.

"Why, you're not so jumpy at night, dear."

"You don't touch me at night. I'd kill you."

"You know you can't do that," Moran retorted in a skilful mimicry of a familiar sing-song voice.

But Sherlock was no longer listening. He had spotted the man through the bay windows. Casually, he went up inside to the bar and sat there. The man came up to him naturally.

"Good evening."

"Good evening... sir."

Sherlock smiled.

"So, you made up your mind."

"I was never against you, sir, I was just so scared of her, you must understand I–"

"There is nothing I _must_ do," Sherlock interrupted coldly. The man gulped. His blond hair was turning greyish, and the way he was sitting, back rigidly straight, made him look as if he were used to standing at attention. Sherlock averted his gaze to look at the cup of sake he'd been given by the bartender.

"I can tell you where she is, sir. I–"

"You're an expert in ciphers, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir, I–"

"Then give her a message from me."

"Sir..."

"JWHWFL SFV A KZSDD TW EWJUAXMD. You'll remember, won't you? Or shall I write it down?"

"But sir..."

His voice was pleading now. Sherlock's gaze was as cold as ever.

"You cannot have two masters. I do not trust you. Get out of my sight, now. _Now!_"

Sherlock was almost surprised at his own barking voice. Almost. Not many things surprised him, these days. Not many things at all. He looked absent-mindedly at the man's back disappear into the crowd.

"Can I have two other cups, please?" he asked the bartender. Who turned out to be a barmaid. She smiled.

Moran was standing at the same spot where Sherlock had left him, watching the fires. The second had been lit, now.

"Here," Sherlock said, handing a cup to Seb, who seemed genuinely surprised. Didn't he always? It must have been easy for him.

"Wow, thanks. It's Christmas! Did the talk with the messenger go well?"

"Mm."

"So he told you where she is?"

"I already know where she is."

Sebastian blinked.

"Then why the hell did you want to meet that guy?"

A small smile lit up Sherlock's face. His eyes were reflecting the fires blazing far on the mountains.

"I wanted to send her a message."

"Ah. Enciphered, I presume?"

Sherlock looked down at his cup of sake.

"It is said that if you tilt a cup of sake so that it reflects the Okuribi on the surface, your wishes will come true." Moran's gaze was fixed on him, but he did not seem to notice.

"Was it Caesar cipher?" Sebastian asked.

"Obviously."

"Haha, I like _your_ sense of humour too, man!" He fell silent. Sherlock was not listening. Finally, as if he weren't even really talking to him, he said:

"Don't you have a wish?"

Sebastian looked at his cup of sake. Slowly, he tilted it to the side. For a moment all the noise around them seemed to fade away. Then his face broke into a twisted grin.

"Goodbye," he murmured, staring back up at the fires. Then, in a louder voice that made the couple next to them jump: "Cheers!" He drank his cup down in one go.

Something flashed across Sherlock's eyes for a second, but Moran missed it. He kept playing with the apple nonchalantly. Sherlock could tell right away that whatever had just happened, it was over and now Moran was back for more taunting. Idiot.

"Say, Sherlock. D'you wish you had been the one?"

"What?"

"Do you wish you had married John when you still had the chance?"

Sherlock blinked.

"That's preposterous. We're both men."

"Well, it's done, nowadays. Boyfriends can marry each other."

"John Watson was just my flatmate and colleague. We never were boyfriends."

"Don't you wish you had been?"

Sherlock watched as the third fire was lit up. A boat. A small, child-like smile graced his face for an instant, then was gone. He finished his sake.

"No. That would have been dull. Boyfriends? Girlfriends? All of that is boring."

"So you too picked your archenemy after all."

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits as he looked at Sebastian. But Moran was watching the fires, and did not look at him. Then suddenly Sherlock became aware of something. Something discreet, just one little word...

"I _too_?" he asked.

Moran smirked in the reddened night light.

"'I'll burn the heart out of you', was it?" he said. "So did he, Sherlock? Did he manage to do it?"

Sherlock fell silent. He fixed his gaze on the fires again.

"He certainly didn't burn anything out of _her,_ although I'm sure she would've loved it," Seb went on.

"The Evil Queen... Yes, I suppose she picked the right character."

"The discarded woman," Sebastian announced theatrically. "That makes you Snow White, dear!"

Sherlock spared himself the trouble to glare at him.

"She must really hate you, you know. She must hate you so much. Her loathing is all she's got left."

"Turning into a psychologist or a poet, now, Seb?"

"Why must you always be like this?" Moran's annoying voice was whinier than ever. "But anyway, I bet the apples were about something else, too. Another reference."

In the distance, the boat-shaped fire kept blazing and blazing. They watched in silence until the last two fires were lit.

Maybe it was rather mesmerizing after all. Sherlock had not expected it to be. It was just work. _Fun?_ The word had lost its meaning long ago. But maybe this was beautiful. The five signs looked like huge ghosts coming to you from the darkness, running in a round dance. But they never quite got to you. They never came close enough.

Sherlock heard Sebastian bite into his apple beside him, but the sound seemed even farther than the fires.

"Don't you want to know, Sherlock? Or is it that you just refuse to acknowledge it?"

The taller man did not answer. His eyes were blazing, reflecting the fires. Mirrors. Sebastian lit up a cigarette and dragged on it.

"You've already bitten into the apple of knowledge, love... You can't run away from what you've brought upon yourself. My little fallen angel."

Sherlock ignored the words and simply took the apple Moran was handing him. He bit into it.

* * *

><p><em>I want to crawl back inside my bed of sin<br>I want to burn the sheets that smell like your skin  
>Instead I'll wash them just like kitchen rags with stains<br>Spinning away every piece that remains of you._

* * *

><p>"You think he's addicted?"<p>

"Why are you even asking? Of course he's addicted."

"But he's got an addictive personality too..."

Sherlock's head throbbed. He could recognize the Woman's voice, and Seb's, too. But everything was blurry and the migraine was making him dizzy.

Suddenly the images shifted and he saw Molly. She was speaking with Eliska. This didn't make any sense. Sherlock could not hear what they were saying but they both seemed quite upset. He wondered if they were going to end up grappling like in movies.

_Stupid, stupid..._

He fell. The scenery changed again. It was Baker Street. Their living-room. But there was a woman in the armchair instead of John; she was lulling to sleep a small thing in her arms. _A baby._ She had no face and Sherlock felt a wave of nausea hit him.

"Sherlock. Sherlock. Wake up, it's time to go."

"Leave me alone."

A chuckle. He found himself lying on Molly's couch.

"Everyone is waiting for you. You've got to get up. Come on, Sherlock. It's time."

"Yes, Sherlock. I've been waiting for so long," Eliska chimed in. "I've been waiting for you to come my whole life..."

Sherlock saw the blade only as it pierced Molly's flesh. A scream ripped the image apart but it was soon replaced with an even bloodier one. "Stupid woman. She'll die, too," Eliska murmured as she cut Irene's throat and started dancing with her head. "Salome? Don't make me laugh! The head of John the Baptist, John the Baptist, John the Baptist! … Ooh. John the Baptist?"

Her grin was like Moriarty's. Like a wolf's.

"Don't."

She laughed.

"_Mary Mary quite contrary,_

_How does your garden grow?_

_With silver bells and cockleshells_

_And pretty maids all in a row!_"

"STOP IT!"

But the blade had struck and the blood was now soaking the armchair and the clothes of the two pitiful corpses in it.

"You didn't have to... You didn't have to... YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO!"

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze. This voice.

"Sherlock, you're alive! What... Oh my God."

Now Sherlock was holding the blade. Why was _he _holding the blade? Eliska...?

"Sherlock, how could you?"

"No, it's not what you think, John... You have to trust me."

"HOW COULD YOU?!"

"IT WASN'T ME!"

"Oh, really?"

Oh. The most dreaded voice. "Really, Sexy? Wasn't you, huh?" Moriarty paced around him in circles. Everything had turned black but it still reeked of blood. "Really, Sherlock? Don't you wish they were dead? Don't you wish they never existed? Don't you–"

"ENOUGH!"

He gasped as he opened his eyes and was hit by the smell of cigarettes. Without a word, Moran handed him one. Sherlock took it mechanically.

"Well. That one was pretty bad," Seb remarked in a drawl.

Sherlock ignored him and dragged on the cigarette, trying to put himself together. After a while, his pulse was even again.

"That was it," he murmured. "The missing piece. His trump card."

"What?"

"She was always there. She too always counted."

It took a moment for Seb to understand what in the world Sherlock was talking about. Then he snorted. "How much did Miss Hooper really count for you before she suddenly turned out to be your last resort?"

"Was _she_?" Seb arched an eyebrow. "_His_ last resort?"

Seb smirked. "No. But he used her. Just like you used Molly Hooper."

Sherlock remained silent.

"Eliska never counted," Seb continued. "There was no room for her in his mind. No room at all."

"But he did use her."

"Maybe. She's not important."

"What is, then?"

Moran grinned broadly.

"Me, of course!"

As this elicited no reaction from Sherlock, Seb sighed and dragged on his cigarette, watching the blue smoke he was blowing. In the darkness of the room, it seemed white. He fell silent.

* * *

><p><em>But before you finally go there's one thing you should know: <em>

_That I promise -_

_Starting now I'll never know your name  
>Starting now I'll never feel the same<br>Starting now I wish you never came into my world._

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?"<p>

"Mm?"

"Do you wish you could've had him before you left?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nah, please don't beg, I'm not into that."

"_Seb._" Sherlock's eyes fell on the red digits of the alarm clock. 3:22. He groaned.

"But seriously. Don't you wish you had held him just once?"

Only silence answered. In the darkness Moran could not see Sherlock's face, but had he seen it still it would have been unreadable. Moran just didn't realize that in his sentence, there were too many words Sherlock just could no longer understand. They simply did not make sense. Not applied to his situation. Never applied to him. _Wish? Hold? Had him?_ Fleetingly, he was reminded of the Woman's vocabulary.

He smiled in the darkness. This was all just a game after all. One where you put your life on the line, too. He should have been happy. Perhaps he was.

"Do you?"

His deep baritone voice broke the silence and he enjoyed how the very light tinge of mockery in it seemed to shatter Moran's skilfully woven web.

"Do I what?" Seb asked, puzzlement clear in his voice. Maybe a bit too clear. But it might have been genuine. In the end, it did not matter.

"'Do you wish you had held him just once?' Is that a line from him to me through you, or is it something _you_ are truly telling me as if I were your mirror?"

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, tell me who is the most beautiful one in the world?"

"I'm not on the wall," Sherlock pointed out blankly.

Moran rolled his eyes, before a smirk played on his lips. "Would you like to be?"

Sherlock just stared in the blackness towards the stupid predatory voice. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Really?"

"Seb. Did _you_ have this kind of relationship with him?"

"Are you jealous?"

"What? No, God no!"

"Wait... Who are you talking about?"

"Jim Moriarty, of course."

"Of course?! I was talking about John!"

"That was a while ago! Please do try to keep up."

Seb grumbled something in his pillow, cursing cocky self-centred one-track minded geniuses.

"Why the hell are you interested?" he finally said.

"Well, I don't know. You seem quite interested in my sex life even though it is nonexistent."

"And whose fault do you think that is?"

"It's not a fault."

"Oh so you're happy with it?"

"Of course I'm happy with it."

"But you've never even tried!"

"I'm not interested."

"But you're in love with John!"

"You wish."

A pause. The air seemed to freeze as tension filled the space between them. Moran appeared to be stunned. Or maybe he was grinning exultingly, sadistically in the darkness. Who could have known? The room was pitch black.

* * *

><p><em>It's my world, it's not ours anymore<br>It's my world, it's not ours anymore_

* * *

><p>The room was full of light. The sun was coming in through the bright green foliage of the trees just out the windows and was reflected a thousand times on the various mirrors inside. This was the reception room in the house from his childhood, Sherlock remembered. They never used it unless they received guests. It was a pity, because it was one of the brightest rooms of the mansion.<p>

_What am I doing here? _Sherlock mused.

He walked up to one of the windows and looked out into the park.

"Sherlock."

He started at the voice and turned violently, his stance already defensive.

"What are you doing here?" Mycroft asked.

"What, is it forbidden?" Sherlock glared. Mycroft was wearing that stupid V-necked Ralph Lauren jumper that made him look even more snobbish than usual. And he was still carrying that book. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I was looking for you."

Sherlock snorted and looked out the window again. "Mummy sent you."

"She's worried about you, Sherlock. She said you've been looking unhappy, lately."

"I've never _looked_ happy, Mycroft. It's stupid."

"But you _are_ unhappy."

Sherlock glowered.

"How would _you_ know? You don't even live here anymore!"

"This is still my house!" Mycroft protested.

"It's Mummy's."

"Sherlock I'm only going to boarding school, this is my home!"

_"Home?_ Since when did you start caring about such lousy concepts?"

"Sherlock..."

"And what are you doing walking around with that stupid book every time you come over for the weekend? _The Prince_. Don't make me laugh."

"It's a very good book, Sherlock."

"And you must know it by heart by now. So why are you carrying it around all the time like a baby with his cuddly toy?"

Sherlock hadn't realized it until now, but Mycroft had been coming closer and closer to him. He snapped when he put his hand on his smaller shoulder.

"Don't touch me! Can't you just leave me alone?!"

But Mycroft's grip tightened painfully. "Is that it, then?" he asked quietly. "You're feeling lonely?"

"Don't make me laugh," Sherlock spat.

"I'm really not trying."

Mycroft had the very bad idea to put his other hand on Sherlock's other shoulder. That was the last straw. Swiftly and with cold fury, Sherlock grabbed his sleeve at the elbow and his collar with his other hand. Mycroft barely had time to realize what was happening before Sherlock stepped in, pulled, bent, loaded him on his back and threw him. Mycroft's eyes widened. He gasped, stunned, as his little brother pinned him firmly to the ground.

"You said you'd never leave me," he screamed. "You said you'd never leave me behind! Liar, liar, liar, LIAR!"

As Sherlock opened his eyes filled with tears, he saw it wasn't Mycroft he was holding anymore, but a stranger with blue eyes and greyish blond hair. He looked nothing like Mycroft. Yet Sherlock kept screaming and screaming and punching the man brokenly, more and more unconvincingly, until he fell on him and curled on himself, exhausted, sobbing.

"I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you..."

* * *

><p><em>Starting now I'll never know your name<br>Starting now I'll never feel the same  
>Starting now... <em>

* * *

><p>He was lying on the bed under rays of moonlight that came in through the window in stripes. His sleep was agitated; his brow was shining with perspiration, black curls sticking to it. His mouth was half-open, as if he were having some trouble to breathe properly. He looked like one of those prisoners in romantic paintings, alone in some gothic cell looking at the moonlight. Except he wasn't looking.<p>

Sometimes he moaned softly, or sighed. His voice was low, never quite coming out of his throat. It sounded trapped. His pale, nervous hands tensed every so often, then slackened and fell back on the white linen once more. He was moving his head around, twisting his throat so much at times that he seemed to be contorting in acute pain, or struggling against some invisible, malicious forces.

Suddenly he arched his back and the sheet enveloped the shape of his body more tightly, fitting around every detail, heightening them. He looked like a white Belphegor whose mask had been shattered, a sculpture whose torment was immortalized in stone and who could not even voice its distress.

Slowly, Sebastian reached towards the restless figure, waiting for the inevitable whisper. Here. It was coming, it was coming closer... He smiled. His hand closed onto the black curls as the full lips quivered:

"John..."

* * *

><p><em>I wish you never came into my world<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	38. Caput mortuum

**A/N: I had never intended to make this chapter so long. But considering this is the only chapter Lestrade gets for himself, I thought I shouldn't force myself to make it shorter just to fit the average chapter length. I hope you will enjoy reading it! Reviews are very appreciated ;)  
><strong>

**...**

****Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"_**_I feed upon it and extinguish it"__  
><em>

**Caput mortuum: **literally "dead head" or "worthless remain" ; used to design a dark brown pigment and in alchemy.

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXXVII: Caput mortuum<br>**

_All love, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>When I push the sheets away from your face<br>And watch you sleep all day here  
>And when I push you away<br>And say you simply cannot stay here_

* * *

><p>Upon waking in the morning, some people don't get up right away. Greg Lestrade was one of those. He always took a little while to move and get going. First he remained lying in bed, always wondering whether he was awake, half-awake, or not awake at all. His eyes fixed on the ceiling above him in the semi-darkness, his head resting on the pillow, the rough linen gradually feeling more present against his skin – it was all part of a routine. His routine.<p>

Greg wasn't sure when the weariness had become part of the routine as well. It wasn't really as bad as lassitude, and he didn't feel like he'd rather not get up at all, of course. But still, there it was. The lack. A lack of energy, of faith, of _something. _The D.I. wasn't sure what exactly. He woke up, saw the ceiling, and watched it without any particular will to get up. It was too hazy so early in the morning for his brain to formulate anything that might've help him understand, such as "Why am I getting up?" or "Why am I in this bed?" or "Does me getting up really make any difference in the world, for anyone?" So he simply stared, lay there for a while, and got up.

It was on Christmas 2011 that for the first time, Greg Lestrade had an inkling of what might be lacking. Quite concretely then, what he lacked was a presence by his side. There was the roughness of the linen and the semi-darkness of the room and the ceiling, as there had always been. And Greg realized that whether his wife was in bed with him or not, he woke up, got up, in the very same way. He was always alone upon waking.

It seemed to him that it hadn't always been like that. At the beginning of their marriage, surely... Yes, there had been lovely mornings together. Greg closed his eyes. On that particular Christmas morning, 2011, he very much wished he had not remembered those happy times. It only made the absence all the more striking.

It was a few days later that another not-so-customary morning occurred. His wife had come back from her sister's. Lestrade had gone back to work. Everything was as it ever was; everything was as it should be. One morning Greg woke up and as his eyes met the ceiling, as the feel of the sheets against his skin sent a shiver down his spine, he tried to sense the presence of his wife's body sleeping beside him. He could not. When he looked, the bed was empty. She had already gone.

_Gone to the kitchen or to take a shower_, he amended mentally. He looked back at the ceiling. He didn't know why it was now of all times that he should feel like it was all crushing down on him, the ceiling and the sheets and the empty space beside him.

Almost a week. Had it really taken so long for Sherlock's words to sink in? Greg took a deep breath, and got up.

She was indeed in the kitchen, reading a magazine while drinking her tea.

"Hello darling," she said with her easy, perfunctory smile.

"Good morning. You're up early today."

"My niece is coming to London. She asked me to go around a few galleries with her."

"Art galleries?"

She arched an eyebrow, not bothering to look up. "Well, what other kinds of galleries could it be, Greg?"

"Were you with her on Christmas?"

"What?"

"Your niece."

"No, she wasn't home this year. Got plans of her own, I'm afraid." She smiled absent-mindedly.

"So she wasn't there."

"That's what I just said."

"And were you?"

"Was I what?"

"There."

This time she put down her magazine and fixed her gaze on her husband.

"Are you really awake?"

"Of course I am. More than ever I'm afraid."

She blinked.

"I don't understand."

"Yes you do."

"Do I, now?"

She stood up and went to pour herself some more tea. She didn't seem agitated, just annoyed. Clearly she thought he was not making sense and being stupid. Again.

"Caroline, I'm asking you whether you were at your sister's for Christmas."

"For goodness' sake Greg didn't I already tell you that? I told you before I went and we talked about it when I got back, what do you–"

"Caro, please..."

"What are you saying?"

"Just answer my question. It's a simple one, really. Were you truly at your sister's for Christmas?"

Their eyes locked. Slowly, he saw the tide rising within her pupils, waves of disgust and anger and... scorn. Her face broke into a rictus.

"What makes you think I wasn't?"

"Please, Caro. Won't you just tell me?"

"No."

Greg's heart missed a beat. Was she refusing to answer still, or was she...?

"No, I wasn't at my sister's," she went on ruthlessly. Her tone was rather sharp, but strangely indifferent. "Did you deduce that alone?" Now it was laced with sarcasm.

Greg swallowed.

"Why?"

"_Why?"_ She burst out laughing. "God, Greg, can you hear yourself? Can you? What are we talking about here exactly? You're not venturing very far, or you? Not asking what I was doing? With whom? Are you just repeating his very words?"

"Caro, stop this."

"No, you stop this! You're not capable of doing your job alone, but can't you even handle your private life by yourself? God, you're pathetic."

"Why did you lie to me?"

She snorted, taking a sip of tea and pushing back a lock of hair behind her ear. "Are you sure that I did? Are you really?" The contempt and the acrimony in her voice, skilfully tempered by her biting, darkly amused tone, almost made Greg wince. "You can't even think for yourself," she spat. "You just listen to others, believe what others say, or don't. You're like a kid learning sciences, not actually understanding how it works, just learning it all and taking what he's told for the Gospel's truth! So you tell me. What do you think, Greg? If I tell you I did not cheat on you, that I just needed a night out and certainly did not want to meet your genius friend to get my whole life read on my face and shoes and handbag and spilled in front of strangers, will you believe me?"

She was walking towards him now, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Will you believe me, dear? Or will you believe _him_?"

Lestrade wanted to say something but his throat was dry and his teeth, clenched. He met her eyes. His were burning.

"I see," she finally said, moving back. She sat where she had been sitting when he had entered the room and stared at him. "Let's get a divorce, Greg."

He swallowed.

"We don't have to–"

"No you don't understand. I've had it."

Lestrade froze.

"_You_'ve had it?"

"Oh don't look at me like that! What do you think? If a woman needs to look somewhere else, there's bound to be something wrong with the man she's with!"

"Something wrong with _me_?" He was dumbfounded. She sneered.

"Yes, love. A lot's wrong with you, actually. You're useless. Completely useless, Greg. You're useless as a D.I., you're useless as a husband, you're useless as–"

"Don't," he cut in, his voice trembling.

"–you're useless as a man," she finished, with full intent. He fell silent. His voice was stuck in his throat. Hers wasn't, apparently.

"I was waiting for this, really. Waiting for the day when you'd come and reproach me with something you could've never have thought of yourself. It's pathetic enough to see you struggle with your own job and more often than not run like a lost puppy to beg for an amateur's help and get kicked in the process, but this? This is too much, Greg."

"Don't put the bloody blame on him, Caro! He's got nothing to do with this."

"Dear God, are you standing up for him?"

"I'm not standing up for anyone! I don't have to!"

"You're right," she said acerbically. "You're not standing up for anyone. Not even for yourself."

She got up from her chair and walked right past him, but Greg caught her arm before she could leave the kitchen and pressed it lightly.

"Caro, let's talk this over. I... What can we do to make this work?"

She stared at him blankly. For a second she looked very tired. There was like a veil on her dark blue eyes, and a tension in her face Greg hadn't noticed. Like so many other things... Then her expression became jaded. Something like disappointment flickered in her pupils, and her lips, tightened, quivered. Suddenly her mouth was pouting and all there was left on her traits was distaste and derision.

"Why don't you go ask him? Since he's got all the answers."

Greg let go of her arm. They stood there, looking each other in the eye.

"So this is it, then," he said.

She nodded curtly. Lestrade stepped back and she resumed walking away.

"Caroline?"

She stopped in the corridor and turned. She was still holding her cup of tea in one hand, and had the magazine in the other. Her hair was done in a messy French twist and a lock of hair was hanging over her left eye, making it twitch. Greg noticed her ring, still there on her left hand, incongruous.

"Do you love him?" he asked.

She smiled abrasively.

"No, Greg. Don't get this wrong. I'm not leaving you because of him. I'm leaving you because of... you."

And with those words she walked out of his life.

* * *

><p><em>And it's all love, all love<br>It's all love, my stupid love_

* * *

><p>Lestrade had thought then that he'd hit bottom. This wasn't just the person he had loved and married leaving him, it was his whole life put into question, everything he had tried to put up with and to accept rubbed in his face all over again. Greg knew he was no genius; but he tried to do his job well. He was conscientious and upright. Even if he was nothing extraordinary, he thought he deserved some esteem. True, he was nothing great, but he was a good man, and, he believed, a good detective inspector. He thought he'd been a good husband, too. Apparently, he'd been wrong there as well.<p>

One of the things that helped him make do and even be satisfied with his situation and with himself was that he was as good as any next D.I. Well, there was Gregson, of course. But he wasn't better. He was just annoying.

It is therefore understandable that Greg's world was rather abruptly upended when, for the first time in his life, he met in person a great man.

Don't judge a book by its cover, they say. In Sherlock Holmes's case, the saying was never so true. At least when Lestrade had met him. The man he'd met then had been barely a man in his eyes: what Greg had seen was a child, lost and confused and angry, terribly lucid and terribly blind at the same time. He was a kid and a junkie, but the revolt in his eyes and that mouth of his Sherlock didn't even bother to watch had told Greg that this man wasn't just any kind of drug addict. That strange, childlike man was both a genius and an irresponsible brat. He was arrogant, caustic in everything he said, scornful and overconfident – and yet, self-destructive. Where people had only seen a freak and a detestable man with a compulsive personality, Greg saw a peculiar but brilliant mind, who only needed an extended hand from someone and something to occupy himself. But God was he insufferable.

It hadn't been easy, but Greg had been fascinated with him and, at the time, quite at a loss with a case he had. From day one the D.I. had seen Sherlock Holmes as a child, and dealt with him as such. Since the stick wouldn't work, he went for the carrot: tempting the man with cases, in exchange for him giving up drugs, had been the only trick Greg had come up with. Jealousy had never even crossed his mind in those early days of their acquaintance. He'd been genuinely dazzled by Sherlock's ability to observe and deduce things he knew he would never think of. It was strange and unnerving most of the time, but still so impressive he always wanted to see more. That, and also get the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock getting better thanks to him letting him meddle with his cases.

He'd thought Sherlock was mad until he'd met – been kidnapped by – Mycroft Holmes. Then he just shrugged it off as a family trait. From his humble point of view, both brothers were completely nuts and megalomaniac and aloof. And frighteningly clever. In fact, clever didn't even start to cover it. The Holmes brother were just so much that Greg had seriously considered backing off and letting them be in their own world. But since Sherlock's world was pretty much a mess then, and Greg was getting used to receiving his help, he gave up what would have been a prudent strategic retreat.

It was only when Sherlock had definitely got better and completely recovered from his addiction that Lestrade had realize just what he was doing. He who had always been serious and righteous was breaking an increasing amount of rules every time he let Sherlock interfere with the police's investigations. And he was taking all the credit, because that was the only way they could keep doing it. "Consulting detective" was a very useful job, Greg had to concede, but his superiors definitely wouldn't approve – all the more so as it wasn't an actual job, since Sherlock wasn't paid. All in all, it rather seemed like Greg was exploiting the kid, and when he realized it he felt awful about it. Naturally, Mycroft Holmes had then thought necessary to "invite" him again in some God damn forsaken place to assure him it was quite all right. Greg had understood he no longer had much choice in the matter.

Except he did. He had some pride, and a sense of honour. If he hadn't been certain that this was contributing to making Sherlock become a better man, occupying him and preventing him from turning to something more harmful, then his conscience wouldn't have been at rest. But as things were, he admired Sherlock, and thought it would be a waste to let him destroy himself out of boredom. And there was something to what Sergeant Donovan had said when she had met Sherlock, or a bit after that: she'd said that one day, Sherlock would be the one to have committed the crime they were investigating. Greg did not believe her. He refused to believe her. But he wouldn't take the risk either: for Sherlock's sake, it was better if he was forced to be on the side of the law. Greg didn't dare imagine what the man was capable of to dispel his boredom.

He'd thought a lot about it, of course. He couldn't ignore this lingering unease at the idea that Sherlock, if not managed well, could well be a threat to society. Not to mention his brother, who seemed to be holding all the strings in Britain and even much farther, would probably cover him. Mycroft Holmes was obviously more careful and, Lestrade feared, even smarter and actually more dangerous than Sherlock himself; but above all he was ridiculously protective of his little brother. If Sherlock started a mess, Greg was quite sure Mycroft would be there to clean it and leave no trace of it whatsoever. The thought was rather chilling.

But the fact was, Sherlock hadn't. Started any mess. Or killed anyone. At least, Greg hoped so, and even came to be certain of it. It was perhaps a risk, but as the years went by, it became less and less likely to happen. Then John Watson had entered Sherlock's life, and Greg was pretty sure then that unless something happened to John, Sherlock would never become a criminal.

What Caro had said was true. Greg would trust Sherlock's word against hers. He would believe what Sherlock said, even if he himself didn't deduce anything, and, in this case, could not verify his claims. Sherlock wasn't exactly a friend, but... He was the closest to a friend that Greg had had in a long time. As a D.I. he had colleagues, whom he appreciated more or less. Then there were his wife's friends, or old friends they had in common, but he didn't see them very often. His job occupied most of his time. And Sherlock... Greg didn't know what Sherlock was to him. He was a bit too old and a bit too out of control to be a son to him, and Greg did not feel responsible for him to such an extent; he did want to protect him, help him change for the better and adapt to society, but beside providing him with cases, there wasn't much he could do, surely. He couldn't possibly ask him out to the pub and invite him to watch football. As for lunch or dinner? That was just preposterous. And Greg had sworn he would never let Sherlock see his flat: imagining what he might deduce from the simplest elements there was enough to make Greg's head spin.

So yes, when he'd spoken those fated words on Christmas Eve, he hadn't even questioned the truth. He had hoped, had tried to ignore it, to forget, but eventually he had to ask Caro, hoping she would deny it all. He was ready to believe her over him. He really was. But then her reaction had been all too telling. When she'd gone, Greg had realized with a shudder that maybe she'd been right. Maybe he'd believed Sherlock from the start, and deep down, would've never believed her.

When he thought back on this now, almost three years after the event, Greg couldn't help but see how bitterly ironic it had been. He'd lost Caro for believing in Sherlock. And just a few months later he'd lost Sherlock for not believing in him.

It isn't rare, with hindsight, to pinpoint exactly the moment when, thanks to our own action, our life was turned upside-down. But that's with hindsight; when, unmistakably, it's already too late.

"The footprint. It's all he has. A footprint."

"Yeah, well, you know what he's like: CSI Baker Street."

"Well our boys couldn't have done it."

"Well, that's why we need him. He's better."

"That's one explanation."

"...And what's the other?"

"Just think about it! Just from a footprint he deduces where the kids are? Who could do that? Nobody could, except the one who's put them there!"

"Now you're going too fa–"

"And then the girl screams her head off when she sees him – a man she has never seen before ... unless she had seen him before."

"What's your point?"

"You know what my point is. You just don't want to think about it."

She was right. He didn't want to think about it. This was insane.

"Why don't you talk to Anderson about it, then? If you don't believe me."

If you don't believe me. Something like anger started to build in Greg's chest. Why was it always about believing or not believing in the end? What was it with those people asking for his trust? ...What was it with him only being able to believe, and never to know?

"Fine. Go get him."

He was furious with his subordinates, but even more furious with himself for not having any proper argument to defend Sherlock. Greg did not believe Sherlock could have done it. Never. But he had no proof. He had nothing to go on, nothing to defend his belief. He was trying, really trying to think of something that would shut them up, while Anderson was talking. He didn't need to listen. He knew already: everything Anderson was saying, he knew. He knew all these elements could point to Sherlock, but it didn't make sense, because... Well, because it was Sherlock. Because Greg cared about him and didn't want it to be him and... He swallowed. The gravity of the situation was slowly dawning on him.

"You're not seriously suggesting he's involved, are you?"

"I think we have to entertain the possibility."

Greg remained silent. He'd never hated Anderson and Donovan so much than when they told their superior everything. Couldn't they just shut up? But nooo, they were too glad to be finally right about something, anything, and to bring down the man who'd never ceased to humiliate them.

Right? Were they right? Hell no. They couldn't be right.

"With all due respect, sir ..." he began.  
>"You're a bloody idiot, Lestrade!" the chief superintendent interrupted. Now go and fetch him in right now!"<br>Greg didn't move.  
>"Do it."<br>There it was. The order. Now he had no choice.

"Are you proud of yourselves?" he asked Anderson and Donovan, not wanting to ask himself whether he was proud of himself now.

"Well, what if it's not just this case? What if he's done this to us every single time?"

"Don't be stupid!" Greg barked. Sherlock's words were still echoing in his mind. "That little nagging sensation... You're going to have to be strong to resist. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home there."

As always, he'd been right. He couldn't kill it, even though he fought against it with all his might. He tried, he really tried: but this was proof that he doubted already. If not, why would he have to fight anything? Greg did not want to think Sherlock could have kidnapped those kids, or been a criminal in any way. He did not want to believe it. But that already meant he didn't believe strongly enough that Sherlock was innocent.

"He wants to destroy me inch by inch."

"It's a game, Lestrade. And not one I'm willing to play."

A game, was it? Had it been a game? If so, Greg had lost it. With hindsight, he now knew, with unbearable clarity: that day, he'd lost everything.

* * *

><p><em>When I say you take away<br>The most important parts of me with you  
>When I've had the greyest day<br>You add more grey, it's just your way  
>It's true<em>

* * *

><p>It was funny how easily, just in a few months, just because of a few words, and a stupid, hateful, little nagging doubt, Greg had succeeded in destroying what mattered the most in his life: his marriage, his career, and the man he admired the most among all the people he knew. You can't kill an idea, he'd said. He'd been correct. Greg hadn't been able to kill it. But he had managed to kill him.<p>

He'd been stupid, so stupid. The chief superintendent had been right. He was an idiot. The type you can't forgive. His lack of discernment had cost him his wife, and now, the very reason for which he'd given up on his marriage had been killed because Greg was too stupid to find the bloody proves of his innocence. Caro had been right, too: because he was so stupid, Lestrade could do nothing but believe, or not believe. That was the only choice he really had, in the end. When he could verify the hypotheses that were presented to him, all went smoothly; but when he had to make a choice, his stupid brain didn't allow him to know the truth. Yes, all he could do was to believe: and even in that, he had failed Sherlock. He'd failed the only person who had always given him the truth.

The last time he'd seen Sherlock, pretending to take John of all people as a hostage, Greg had even been stupid enough to feel relief. It hadn't crossed his mind that what was out there could do more damage to Sherlock than his being arrested. He could never have known...

But he'd doubted him. He'd been too stupid to prove his innocence, and too weak to actively believe in him. He'd failed as a D.I., and he'd failed as a friend.

At first, guess what, he hadn't wanted to believe it. That Sherlock was dead. It just wasn't an option. It didn't make sense and it was unfair and... Then he'd seen Molly. She'd shaken her head. Greg had felt his legs give out. He'd sat there in the mortuary, dumbstruck. He'd asked to see him. She'd said he was gone already. His brother had taken him to be buried. Lestrade had thought he would throw up then and there.

He hadn't. Nor had he at Sherlock's funerals. Until then he'd been in shock, so numb with pain and disbelief that for some unfathomable, insane reason, he'd hoped something would happen. Sherlock would show up or Mycroft would come and say he was just resting and would be back soon. But all he'd seen were John and Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Suddenly it had become real. They were burying Sherlock. He was dead. Really dead.

In this instant Greg had hated himself so much he could have walked out of the cemetery and under a bus without the slightest hesitation. It had risen in his chest, choking him, and no words could describe it – not guilt, not self-loathing, nothing. This was unlike anything he'd ever felt. He couldn't think, couldn't move, even less speak. He felt crushed. Physically, concretely, crushed.

The first thoughts that crossed his mind as his eyes were fixed on the unthinkable gravestone were questions. Why was he still there? He had as good as killed Sherlock. Why hadn't John come to shoot him dead yet? Hell, why hadn't Mycroft come to get him and bring him to some torture room to make him regret he'd ever been born?

"Are you all right, Detective Inspector?"

He started as he felt Mrs. Hudson's hand on his arm. His eyes shifted to her, but he barely registered her presence. All he could read on her face was concern. Why was she concerned? There was nothing to be concerned about now. It was too late.

"I'm fine," he heard his own voice answer. She seemed even more worried and gave him a pained look. Pain. That was more like it. Greg could relate to that.

"It's not your fault, Inspector Lestrade. You mustn't let yourself think it's your fault."

He stared at her blankly. This wasn't right. She didn't understand. No, he had to talk to someone else. Someone who would understand.

"John."

When the ex-soldier turned to him and their eyes locked, Greg knew he'd found the right person. The hollowness in John's gaze was mirroring his own. Before he knew it, he was asking – no, begging – not to be forgiven, but to be blamed, punished maybe, by someone, anyone who'd understand just how responsible he was for what had happen, and who wouldn't ignore it. Who wouldn't let him get away with it.

"I'm sorry. John, I'm so sorry. I don't know how this happened. I honestly don't. I wish I did, I... I wish I wasn't so bloody daft and... This..." he gestured towards the grave desperately, "this should have never happened. I should never have doubted him, I don't even know how I could. I'm sorry. So sorry." Then he seemed horrified at his own words. "Of course it means nothing! What good can it do now? This... I just need you to know I never wanted this. I don't know how it turned out like this, but I would have done anything, really anything, to avoid it. I... I doubted him, I did, and now... God, even if he did kidnap the kids, he didn't deserve this! No, I'm not saying he kidnapped them. He didn't. He couldn't have. Hell, it doesn't matter, who cares? It doesn't matter now. But he was innocent. He was bloody innocent and I didn't do anything to prove it, I didn't know how to prove it, and I... Why did he kill himself, John? How did that maniac manage to do it? Sherlock couldn't have cared for his reputation to that extent, right? Not when you were here. He cared about you so much, he couldn't have... God, I'm sorry I don't know what I'm saying. Forgive me. I just don't know what I'm saying anymore. I'm so sorry. I am so terribly sorry, John. This is my fault. I should never have doubted him, even for an instant. I should never have let you go, I should have brought you to the police station and everything would have been solved because of course he was innocent, they couldn't create false proves could they, and..."

Greg wasn't sure how long he babbled. The words never seemed to stop. It was a never-ending flow, drowning him, not making him feel better in the slightest. John wasn't reacting. He was just standing there, silent; Greg wasn't even sure he was listening. He was closed off to the world, radiating only emptiness. Greg wished he'd say something, anything. Punch him. Shoot him. But John barely acknowledged his presence, and when the words died out, when nothing came out of him anymore, he simply turned and walked away. Greg stared at his back, frozen on the spot. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were talking to him, it seemed, but he couldn't hear them. They didn't understand. Only John could. John could, but he hadn't done anything. He'd left Greg there with his guilt and his despair and his stupidity, he'd left him to rot in his own solitude, tormented by his own thoughts. He hadn't punched him. He hadn't shot him. The only thing John had given him was the knowledge that it wasn't one man Greg had destroyed; it was two.

The pain and hopelessness he'd been trapped in during the following weeks had somewhat protected Greg from the chaos that ensued, making him numb and indifferent to everything that happened to him. Everything was getting out of control. They said he was in shock and tried to put him away, and next they were calling him back to interrogate him and ask him about Sherlock's involvement in the affairs of the police, and Greg would go mad and shout and scream Sherlock's innocence as if it mattered now. Then they'd put him away again. And call him back. It was a mess. The Met was a mess and the newspapers were spouting nonsense and Greg was craving justice so bad it was painful: why couldn't anyone see the only murderer around was him? He'd wondered why he hadn't heard of Mycroft. The elder Holmes was his last hope. Surely he wouldn't allow this.

But days passed and weeks, and when they no longer needed him he was sent away. Transferred, they said. Demoted, clearly. Greg didn't understand. What they were doing didn't make sense. Naturally they'd taken the case of the kidnapping of the ambassador's children from him, but it seemed they didn't intend to look any further for a culprit: Sherlock Holmes had killed himself, wasn't this telling enough? It was unbelievable. More unbelievable still, Mycroft was doing nothing. Greg hadn't heard from him and he was never mentioned in the papers. It was as if he had never existed. Lestrade had screamed his names during some of his outbursts, telling them to go get him, that he would know, because he knew everything, was everywhere, and he would never let his little brother's name be dragged through the mud. But they'd always looked at him as if he were crazy. Mycroft hadn't showed up. And Greg had been sent away.

The weight of the scandal had been enormous, but the guilt overpowered it. There had been his superiors and various police officers and journalists and many people, but never those who mattered. Greg was shattered. He couldn't find the strength in himself to go see John. He had no way to reach Mycroft. And all the people he could talk to were stupid, ignorant, self-satisfied, blind. Just being in the Met was making him sick. One day when he was called for questioning or whatever it was they were trying to do with him, he'd lost it. He had completely snapped and insulted each and every police officer he'd met on his path, bellowing in front of all of them how worthless they were, how useless, selfish, petty, insulting all of them along with Anderson and Donovan and himself. That was the last time he'd been called in.

It was only when he got to his new "job" and living place that Greg realized how absurd it all was. So he did what he should have done from the beginning. He quit.

* * *

><p><em>But it's all love, all love, oh<br>It's all love, all love, oh_

* * *

><p><em>Shut up! An amateur detective given access to all sorts of classified information, and now he's a suspect in a case! <em>

_Shut up. I didn't say anything. You were thinking. It's annoying. _

_You're a bloody idiot, Lestrade!_

_Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring._

_You can't just break into my flat! I'm not your sniffer dog. _

_What if it's not just this case? What if he's done this to us every single time?_

_Actually, you know what? Ignore me. Ignore all of that, it's just the shock talking. _

_You know what my point is. You just don't want to think about it. _

_You see, you just don't observe!  
>That little nagging sensation... You can't kill an idea, can you? It's a game, Lestrade. He wants to destroy me inch by inch. <em>

_Destroy me_

_Destroy me_

_Destroy..._

_Inch by inch_

_by inch_

_by inch_

_by..._

_Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping.  
>He's not resisting. It's all right, John. He's not resisting! No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous.<br>Get him downstairs now. You know you don't have to do––Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too. _

_They won't work with me! You need me._

_...Yes, I do. God help me. _

_Help me _

_Help..._

_Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees? Now would be good! _

_Do as he says! _

_Get after him, Lestrade!_

_Why are you here? One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to spy on me incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself "Greg"? _

_It's a game, Lestrade. A game. _

_Go get him. DO IT!_

Greg woke up with a gasp. Clenching the sheets with trembling fists, he stared at the darkness above him. The ceiling. Then his eyes fell on his alarm clock; the red digits burned him and he blinked. 4:06. He closed his eyes again and let himself drift away into nightmares once more.

When he woke up again the ceiling was grey. Daylight fell on the sheet and scattered the shadows like spilt milk. Greg felt the roughness of the sheets against his skin and tried to feel a presence by his side. He looked and remembered Caroline had left years ago. Sometimes he was reminded of what her presence had felt like; but he no longer felt her absence. Another one, more mercilessly potent still, had overridden Caro's.

Every morning when Greg woke up naturally, that is, not from a nightmare, he enjoyed a few seconds of blissful oblivion; then the day and the world came crushing down on him. He stared at the ceiling as the memories flowed, an unrestrained stream flooding his wrecked body; and then he got up.

They hadn't accepted his resignation, so he still had to get up in the morning. Shower. Shave. Dress up. And go.

Greg hadn't heard from Caro ever since they'd signed the divorce papers. He hadn't heard from anyone since he'd left London. To be fair, he hadn't told anyone he was moving; not Mrs. Hudson, not Molly, not one of his old friends... not John. He hadn't even thought of it. It didn't matter. He knew someone would come to settle the score one day. He was waiting.

For a few weeks he'd been getting on just fine. People who knew him might've said he was just a shadow of himself; but precisely nobody knew him here, and since he did not speak, they only assumed he was the broody, quiet type not to be bothered. There were rumours, of course. People read the papers. Most of them knew who he was. But it didn't matter. They didn't bother with him, and he didn't bother with them. Once they had asked him about Sherlock. It was inevitable, of course. But Greg had simply stared until they excused themselves awkwardly. They'd never asked again.

That was the last time he had heard Sherlock's name. When he woke up one Saturday and began to recall the events of the past months, as he unwillingly did every time he came to consciousness, he had no idea he'd hear that name again the very same day, from not-so-unexpected lips.

When Greg opened the door to whoever had just rung the bell and saw Mycroft Holmes, he blinked.

"Hello, Inspector."

An overwhelming wave of relief washed over him. At last. He'd come.

"You can't really call me that anymore," he said by way of greetings. "Please come in."

He was surprised to see that Holmes the elder... well, the only Holmes now, had come unaccompanied. Then again, Greg couldn't be sure. You never could, with Mycroft.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asked, feeling silly as he did. Obviously his visitor hadn't come to chat over a drink. Mycroft surprised him again by answering politely: "I'll have some tea, thank you."

Feeling rather lost at this strange turn of events, Greg went into the kitchen and put the water to boil. Mycroft was pacing in the living-room. It was funny, Greg mused. He'd sworn he would never let a Holmes in his flat, and there he was. But things had changed. Sherlock was dead.

"How have you been doing, Inspector?"

"Don't call me that. And I'm sure you can answer that question yourself," Greg replied from the kitchen. He would've been more careful if he'd known what Mycroft had come for. But in his mind it was all so clear. This was the end. The end of his turmoil, the end of his pathetic attempt to keep going; the end of him. Finally, Justice had come.

"I was just trying to make conversation," Mycroft retorted with a frown as he entered the kitchen, his gaze scanning it idly. Greg smiled.

"What do you think of the flat?"

"Dreary?"

Greg's broken smirk broadened.

"Are you surprised?"

"Not really."

He brought the kettle in the living-room, along with two mugs, and indicated a chair for Mycroft to sit in. "I suppose it is a bit dreary. But it doesn't matter. I knew I wouldn't be staying long."

At this, Mycroft arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Are you going somewhere?" he asked. Greg stared.

"Well," he began, shifting a bit in his seat, "that's why you're here, right?"

They looked each other in the eye.

"Yes," Mycroft finally said, eyeing him carefully. "But I'm not sure we have the same thing in mind."

This time, Greg burst out laughing.

"I don't have anything particular in mind, Mr. Holmes. Actually, I'm sure you well know I have nothing in mind. Nothing at all in there," he said as he knocked twice on his scalp. For the first time since he had arrived, something like shock flickered across Mycroft's features. Suddenly Greg felt terrible.

"Look... I'm sorry. It's just that... I've been waiting so long..."

Mycroft remained quiet, his gaze heavy on Lestrade; Greg could feel the weight of his scrutiny. But he stared right back.

"Why didn't you come before?"

"I have been quite busy, Inspector, as I'm sure you know."

"Yeah. Right. No but seriously, Mycroft? Why now? What are you doing here now?"

Greg was feeling it rise within him again, this horrible mix of anger and despair. He looked away and stood up, drinking from his mug. If the use of his first name bothered him, Mycroft said nothing about it. In fact, he said nothing at all. After a while Greg couldn't stand it and spoke again.

"I'm sorry. You trusted me with him, but I couldn't look after him properly. I'm sorry I believed those bastards over him even for one second, I'm sorry I arrested him, I'm sorry I let him go, I'm sorry I could do nothing to prove his innocence, I'm sorry I was too stupid to see what was going on, I'm sorry..." His voice broke. He took a deep breath. "...I'm sorry I fell completely for Moriarty's trick and left him alone to die."

His right hand was clenched on the mug, trembling.

"Why didn't you come sooner?" he asked again, the pain and the fury in his chest becoming unbearable. "Why didn't I hear from you before? Why did you do nothing, nothing to clear his name?!" He was shouting now. What was happening to him? He was supposed to apologize, beg for forgiveness and mercy. Not that he wanted any. But this? What in the world was he doing?

"He was your brother, for goodness' sake! Don't you miss him? Even I miss him! God, I miss him so much..."

Breaking down at last, he fell back in his chair, head down, his shoulders stiff, trying hard not to sob.

"How did it come to this? How did I become like this? There are so many idiots out there, and their wives don't leave them and they're not responsible for the death of geniuses!"

"Inspector–"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" Lestrade bellowed. "Don't you bloody dare call me that!"

"Please calm down."

"I'm calm. I'm very calm. Let's get on with it."

"With what?"

"Whatever you came here to do!"

"You think I came to judge you."

At these words, Greg's irritation deflated at once.

"Why did you come, then?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Won't you sit down? I came to talk to you. Just to talk."

Greg complied mechanically.

"Now," Mycroft went on, leaning slightly towards him. "You seem to be under the impression that you are responsible for my brother's death."

"Not you too. Don't tell me this wasn't my fault. Not you."

"I am ready to concede that it is regrettable that you doubted him, but it would have changed nothing if you hadn't."

Greg noticed his right hand was still shaking. He was tired. So tired. He just wanted this to end.

"What do you mean?"

"Listen Lestrade, you are a wreck. Clearly you are suffering from depression, you miss your wife, whom you loved even though she was unfaithful and you were well aware of it, you miss Sherlock, and you believe you should have been the one to die in his stead– for goodness' sake, get a hold of yourself! This is absurd. You do not know what you are thinking. Perhaps you should begin a therapy. In any case you cannot trust yourself in this situation, because you have been traumatized."

"Who are you?" Greg asked in a failed attempt at turning this into a joke. This wasn't what he'd expected. This wasn't what he had wanted.

"Who are _you?"_ Mycroft countered.

They fell silent, neither wanting to lose their staring contest.

"What happened to Sherlock?" Greg asked.

"He was forced to commit suicide. Moriarty manipulated him."

"How?"

"By targeting what he cared about. Or rather, whom he cared about."

Greg's eyes widened.

"John? They targeted John? Oh God..." He took his head in his hands, another wave of guilt hitting him. Then if he really hadn't let them go that day...

"No. It would have changed nothing. John wasn't the only target."

"But who?"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh God."

"Even if you had arrested both Sherlock and Dr. Watson, it would have changed nothing. Moriarty would have got to him in any case."

Greg didn't know what to say, so he remained quiet. His thoughts were swirling in his head and he had no idea how to put them in order.

"I came here today because I wanted to see how you were doing."

Lestrade let out a mirthless chuckle.

"Well now you've seen."

"And I wanted to apologize to you."

At this, Greg's eyes widened. Mycroft coughed a little and continued:

"When I asked you to keep an eye on Sherlock and be attentive to his well-being, I did not think it could bring such harm to you. It was never my intention."

"What are you–"

"Let me finish. I also apologize for not having come to see you earlier. I had to prioritize some personal matters, as you must imagine. I hope you understand."

"No. No, I don't. What is this? What are you doing here, if it's not to recognize the obvious?!"

"You are not responsible for Sherlock's death. You doubted him, as anyone would have, for one fateful moment. This is guilt talking, not you. Just think. Moriarty was stronger than me. How could _you_ have done anything?"

Greg stared, speechless. Only now was he realizing how hard it must have been for the elder Holmes. Greg had thought that Mycroft's first reaction would be to punish him, but now it seemed ridiculous. Why would Mycroft care? It wouldn't bring Sherlock back.

"I just can't believe he's... I didn't want to believe it," Greg murmured. His voice faltered and he served himself more tea, which he drank in one go as if it were vodka.

"So you did not put everything behind you."

"How could I? Mycroft, I know you think I'm mad and pathetic and suffering from PTSD, but there is one thing neither you nor I can deny, whatever our states: I let Sherlock down. I let him down, and it contributed to the process that led him to take his own life."

"As I said, anyone would have doubted him. You weren't the only one."

"John didn't."

"You're wrong."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean? John would have never doubted Sherlock. Not for one second."

"You're right. He would have never been fooled by anything anyone else said about Sherlock. But Sherlock could fool him."

Greg looked at his mug absent-mindedly. "That's stupid," he said. "John would have done anything for Sherlock. He would've gone through fire for him. Why would Sherlock want to fool him?"

"Well, we'll never know now, will we?"

"I'm sorry."

Mycroft put down the mug from which he had barely drunk, and rested his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers.

"Now, Lestrade, tell me. What are your plans for the future?"

"The future?" Greg repeated dumbly.

Mycroft nodded. "Do you intend to move on? Get a new life, perhaps?"

"You know that's impossible."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Nothing is impossible for me."

"Are you offering me a new identity?"

"If you want."

"Why?"

A small, genuine smile lit up Mycroft's face. But it was sad, and it pained Greg more than it pleased him.

"Because you looked after my brother, Inspector. You did."

"I don't want a new life. I can't... No. I don't want to forget."

"Why?"

"I loved Caro, you know."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, apparently not following. Greg ignored him and went on.

"I loved her, and I hated her sometimes. I wanted to be with her, but when I was, I felt miserable. Sherlock was similar in some ways."

Mycroft smirked almost fondly. "A pet to which you keep extending a hand and who bites back," he confirmed.

"Well, I wouldn't say a pet. But yeah. He definitely bit."

They exchanged a look. Before they knew it, they were both laughing. Quietly, but still laughing. Greg was exhausted. He felt like crying and giggling all at once. He swallowed with difficulty.

"What I'm saying is that... I loved him, too." Seeing Mycroft's look, he corrected promptly: "Not like that! I just... cared. I have no right to say it now, but I did. I do." His voice was soft now. The tide was receding. With calm the pain settled in him, weighing him down. It was his burden. "I miss him."

"And I am glad to hear you say it."

Greg shook his head, wordless. This wasn't what he had wanted from Mycroft. But now he saw he had no right to expect anything from him. "I'm glad you came."

"Well, so am I. In fact, now that you have answered all my questions, I have a request. If you'll hear it."

"Of course."

"I want you to come back to London and to take up your job again."

"No."

"In order to clear Sherlock's name."

"What?" Greg stammered.

"You heard me. For certain reasons, this is not something I can take care of myself, not openly. I need a defender. Someone who will spend the necessary time and fight for it with tenacity."

"But John..."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm afraid Dr. Watson is nowhere near capable of such a task at the present."

"That bad?"

"I'm sorry to say it is, yes."

Lestrade fell quiet again, his eyes on his mug of tea. "But they won't take me back. I've been 'transferred', you know."

"Well," Mycroft said with one of his Holmesian (read superior and slightly teasing) smile, "this is just the kind of things I can help with."

And so Lestrade came back to London, with a defined mission: undo the damage he had so regrettably done to Sherlock Holmes's reputation.

* * *

><p><em>It's all love, all love, oh<br>It's all love, my stupid love_

* * *

><p>He was given his old job back all right, with different underlings, and he made it a point to regally ignore Anderson and Donovan. This was one of the promises he'd made with himself when he had moved back: act as if they did not exist. If he did otherwise, he knew he would snap. He did not allow himself one glance, one word towards them. He had the satisfaction to know they would go down once he'd proved Sherlock's innocence to the world – and he knew he could, for he had the dedication, and Big Brother's unofficial support, which granted him power and access to everything he needed.<p>

He still had to do his official job, however, and so he was given the case no one managed to deal with then: a serial-killer using poisoned apples to kill young women. Another great media sensation. Greg suspected Mycroft to be behind the fact that he of all inspectors was given the case, just so he could get contacts in the journalistic world.

It wasn't easy. Most people at the Met hated him, and his underground protection from Mycroft did not help his case. Moreover, wasn't he nosing about in order to prove that they had all made a terrible, tragic mistake which had apparently cost a young man his life? He was bound to be disliked, to the least.

So he went through hell. It was his redemption. With this goal in mind, he could bear anything – the looks, the harsh words, the rumours, the nightmares, the guilt... Greg had become accepting. It hadn't been simple, nor very pleasant, and he'd had to go overcome a great deal of obstacles, but at last he'd done it. He had succeeded in clearing Sherlock's name. It took him months, and on the other hand he made no progress at all with what had become the 'Snow white' case. But it hardly mattered. What did matter was that now Sherlock was a victim of prejudices, an ill appreciated hero. There was even a whole movement to support him, called (and wasn't this fate? Lestrade sometimes thought bitterly) the "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" movement.

But it wasn't with them that Greg wanted to celebrate this. After all he'd done, he was exhausted, but happy like a good worker who has completed his task at the end of a hard day of labour. He could only think of one person to tell, one person to share the news with.

"Can I come in?"

John sighed. It wasn't exactly the welcome Greg had expected, but at least John spoke to him this time.

"I'll kill Mycroft some day..." he grumbled as he let Lestrade into his new flat. Greg could understand why he would want to move out of Baker Street, but it still felt weird to visit him here. And without Sherlock.

"Surprisingly enough, he seems more worried about you killing yourself," he retorted, trying to sound playful and failing.

"_Him_? Worried? Oh God, don't tell me this is some psychological inversion and that I'll have to deal with Big Brother from now on. Because I'm not putting up with his crap."

Lestrade laughed, and John stared. Greg shifted awkwardly under his nonplussed gaze. On second thought, it did look like John was a little disconnected from reality. He seemed so confused Greg dropped all pretence and stopped laughing at once.

"I've come to talk about Sherlock's death, John."

"What a surprise." The ex-soldier's tone was tired and bitter. Greg felt a pang in his chest but refused to acknowledge how jaded his former friend sounded.

"No, you don't understand. I mean with Rich Brook and Moriarty..."

"... who are the same person."

"Precisely."

"What do you mean?"

"We should be able to clear his name, John," he announced, unable to completely hide the joy in his voice. It wasn't out in the press yet, but he had all the elements now, soon...

"Moriarty's?"John asked innocently.

"Oh, don't be stupid. Sherlock's, of course!"

"Great. I'm sure he'll be overjoyed. Maybe he'll even throw a little party with his new friends."

The D.I.'s eyes widened. He stared, at a loss.

"Don't you think the worms will enjoy the news too?" the other went on, faking surprise.

"John..."

"Just drop it, Greg," John cut in icily, before Greg could even find the words. "It's great his name can be cleared. His reputation meant a lot to me when he was... alive, because no matter what he said, he wanted recognition. Any genius craves an audience. But he enjoyed being the only one to know, too: alone, but above everyone else."

"He was no longer alone, he was with y–"

Greg was interrupted by John raising his hand sternly.

"That's not the point. _He_ is no longer here to crave or enjoy anything."

"But you are, John," Greg insisted firmly, fighting back the desperation bubbling within him and threatening to fill his voice. His heart sank when he saw the blatant sadness in John's smile.

"Yes," he said. "I am."

Greg had nothing to say to that. In less than a minute, John had managed to bring him back to the state he was in months ago. He felt hollow. This was the harsh reality.

Funnily enough, Mycroft must have known, for Greg saw him soon after that. The D.I. wasn't sure what the British government might want to discuss with him – congratulate him? that was unlikely – but he knew as soon as they were sitting in a coffee shop and Mycroft asked:

"So, how is Dr. Watson doing?"

"He's not a doctor now, is he," Greg grumbled. "You should really stop addressing people by their old titles, it's unnerving."

Mycroft furrowed his brow haughtily. "Not so good, then," he remarked, ignoring Lestrade's rebuke.

Greg sighed.

"Either way, you shouldn't meddle. He's on edge. Seems pretty angry with you, for some reason. And doesn't give a damn about Sherlock's name. He misses the man too much for that."

"He'll come round eventually," Mycroft assured.

Lestrade shook his head. "But he's right, you know. What good does it do now?"

"More than you think."

Greg wasn't so sure anymore.

* * *

><p><em>You can't be the one to kill the pain anymore<br>You let me in but then you slam my fingers in the door  
>I've had enough but I keep asking you to give me more<em>

* * *

><p>After that, things progressed quickly. Soon the news – and definite proves – of Sherlock's innocence was out in the papers. Greg gave interviews, contacted the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement, and invited former clients of Sherlock's to speak up.<p>

He truly hoped it made a difference for John. That now, even if he didn't personally care about Sherlock's reputation, it would be easier for him to find a job and get back on track.

As for Lestrade, his hands were now full with the 'Evil Queen' case – yes, that was the latest name found by the media for it. Funny how they changed from a focus on the victim – Snow White – to a focus on the villain. Well, the fact that they hadn't caught the culprit (or culprits) yet, and that the number of victims was increasing, probably made the murderer more interesting than the many young women who had been poisoned.

"People always felt fascinated with the dark side of things," Molly stated once they were having coffee. Yes, he had invited Molly for coffee. So what? There was nothing to it. Greg simply wished to apologize for his terrible behaviour the last time he had seen her, and he enjoyed talking to people who had known Sherlock. Molly was also someone he could worry with about John.

"He was very thin last time I saw him. Not that I saw much of him, I must say."

Molly smiled sympathetically.

"He's having a hard time."

"Aren't we all?"

She nodded cautiously. "Yes. But not like that. You know..." She trailed off. Perhaps she couldn't find the words, or her voice failed her. He looked her in the eye.

"I know," he said quietly.

Turned out they _didn't_ know, though. Not how bad it was.

A month later, John attempted suicide.

Greg heard from Mycroft, who told him to be discreet about it. As if he were going to go shouting _that_ to the media.

"Nothing," Mycroft had said when Lestrade had asked him what he could possibly do. "You have to let him overcome this by himself."

"But still, I'd seen him, Molly had seen him... How could we have not seen this coming? We thought he was doing better..."

"It wasn't the rash act of a lost, desperate man, Inspector. John _was_ doing better. Better enough to decide with as clear a mind as possible that it wasn't worth it going on."

Lestrade said nothing to that. There was nothing to say. But he promised to himself that he would do everything that was in his power to ensure that John would never do such a thing again.

He did, however, follow Mycroft's advice. The two brothers were very different in some ways, but their advice being sensible was definitely a common quality. Like that one time when Mycroft simply called to inform him that the policeman who had started working at the Met in April 2012 and who was of German descent was a hit-man. From anybody else, Greg would have laughed it off. But naturally, it turned out Big Brother had been right. And so expectedly, he had been right about Dr. Watson as well.

John got back on track by himself. Greg heard from Mycroft that he had found a job again, in a clinic, and from Mrs. Hudson that he had moved back into Baker Street. Shortly after, Greg received a phone call he no longer dared hope for.

"Hello, Greg. This is John. I was wondering if you'd like to go out drinking with me tonight."

* * *

><p><em>What I say<br>That is no way_

* * *

><p>He met John in a pub they'd gone to once or twice before Sherlock's demise. It was difficult, because he didn't know where to begin, didn't know why John had called, why he wanted to see him, why <em>now<em>... He was so scared to make a false move, yet incredibly happy to see the doctor again.

"So, how's everything?" John began rather awkwardly. "The work, your wife... It's been a while."

Lestrade sighed. _Oh yes, it has. You have no idea._ He shrugged at John's questions.

"The work's crazy without Sherlock, and the yard is a mess since that scandal," he replied casually, deciding it would be better for both of them to mention Sherlock's name from the very beginning.

"You mean Detective Inspectors asking him for help?"

"No, I mean the police arresting an innocent who committed suicide the next day," Lestrade answered gravely. Seeing the topic made John uncomfortable, he moved on promptly:

"As for the wife, well... Technically she's not exactly my wife anymore." He tried to say it lightly, not wanting to dwell on the subject. Not wanting to even talk about it, really.

"Oh, so you finally concluded the divorce then? Of course, that was a while ago, but it wasn't with her you'd gone on holiday that time you joined us on the Baskerville case."

"Wait, did I tell you that?"

"Sherlock told me that."

"Oh. Right."

They looked at each other, and broke into giggles. A sense of relief washed over Greg. He was glad, so glad that John had called him.

"It's great to see you again, really," he said, still chuckling. John gave him an apologetic smile.

"Yeah. I'm sorry I was so rude the last time we met."

Greg shook his head and put down his glass.

"There's no need. You weren't rude, you were just... not interested."

"Well, I am now."

Greg arched an eyebrow.

"What?"

"About how you proved Sherlock wasn't a fake. Or rather, about what happened the day he... jumped."

Greg swallowed uneasily and ran a nervous hand in his hair. This wasn't what he had expected. He should probably stop expecting things anyway, seeing how wrong he always turned out to be.

"Well, that's not exactly the same thing," he finally said. "We don't know his motives, and that's why it took so long to convince the jury – and the press – that he was a true genius. Why would a true genius commit suicide if he wasn't a fake? Then, there's your testimony and that phone call you got..."

"Wait, did that make it into the report?"

"Of course not," Greg replied, slightly affronted. "You didn't say it to the D.I., but to the friend, right?" He'd spoken before thinking, as he so often did, and suddenly feared John's reaction to his words. The doctor looked away, and Greg's heart clenched.

"So? What have you got?" John asked.

"Nothing. As far as the reason he committed suicide is concerned anyway."

John clearly looked disappointed. And puzzled.

"I mean, you're more likely to know something than I am," Greg went on. "We're not talking about proves here, or facts, but his actual motivations."

"You'd known him for longer than I did."

"Yeah, but I didn't _live_ with him. I think he was closer to you than he ever was to anyone, even me or his landlady. Well, he may have had friends before."

"That Victor Trevor guy."

"Who?"

"In the article. _Riley_'s article. Victor Trevor was mentioned as the first friend of Sherlock Holmes, but they parted suddenly after university."

"I think Mycroft told me about him. Rather as Sherlock's first real case than as a friend, but..." _Yeah, definitely as a case and not as a friend. You were his very first friend, John._ For some reason the thought saddened Greg a little. He still responded to John's knowing smile.

"So... you know Mycroft," the doctor said.

"Oh yeah," Greg said, feeling exhausted just from mentioning the name.

"For a long time?"

The D.I. shrugged. Now that he thought about it, it was a pretty long time indeed.

"He kidnapped me when I first met his junkie brother. Or perhaps a week later. I suppose he did the same with you – I mean, you actually _moved in_ with him. He must've thought he was getting a brother-in-law or something!" he said, not repressing his laughter.

"Actually, I think he did," John dead-panned. Greg stopped laughing at once.

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Asked me what my intentions were. And if by any chance I wouldn't be interested in spying on Sherlock for him."

"Exactly."

"What did you tell him?"

"Piss off," Greg said with an amused smile, trying not to show how much he regretted his harshness now. He owed so much to Mycroft these days, after all.

"That's something the Holmes must be used to hearing," John commented, shaking his head. Greg felt a bit ill at ease. John was talking about the brothers as if both were still alive.

"Speaking of Mycroft," he began tentatively, "if anyone knows something about Sherlock's motives, I thought it'd be you. But since you don't... He'd know, wouldn't he?" He just couldn't muster the courage to tell John himself. He couldn't. How could anyone tell a broken man that his best friend had given his life to save his? Mycroft Holmes could. Probably. Greg just couldn't.

John's face fell and the D.I. was astonished to see the fury light up in his eyes.

"I am absolutely not asking _him_ anything. If I ever see him again, I think I'll kill him. I almost did."

Greg gaped. _Kill him_? Was it that bad? He really wanted to ask John about it, but dared not. What they had now was too fragile for that. Some day, maybe. Now he treasured their renewed bond too much to put it in jeopardy in any way.

"That was intended for the friend, too," John added with a smile.

Lestrade smirked back and held up his glass. "Of course. Cheers!"

From then onwards, they met regularly at what really became "their" pub. Every time John asked more and more about Sherlock. The poor man was obviously obsessed. Greg couldn't blame him. He answered his questions when he could, told him about Sherlock's past cases. It was painful to see how John drank his words, appeared to physically_ need_ to hear always more about Sherlock. He was going on a quest, trying to retrace the consulting detective's steps in London, as if following his trail... Greg sincerely wanted to help, but he was terrified of what would happen when John would realize this would never lead him to _Sherlock_. The trail led nowhere. Nowhere but to the abhorred gravestone.

Greg always encouraged John to see Mycroft, tempting him with much more knowledge about Sherlock. It had become a routine. At some point in the conversation, the D.I. would invariably drop in Mycroft's name, and before he could suggest anything, John would cut in:

"I'll never forgive him."

Greg still never dared ask him what exactly he wouldn't forgive, and always replied casually something like: "You should, though. He couldn't have done anything for Sherlock, you know. Or he would have done it. I'm sure he did his best. Come on, John, you know Sherlock was the one and only person he ever cared about. He bloody _kidnapped_ us just because we'd spoken to him more often than average!" Since this only ever elicited a frown or a grimace from John, Greg always tried to defend the elder Holmes's case by talking about his own situation: "He helped me a lot you know. When I moved away from London, my financial and... moral state was very bad, and..." But nowadays John got tired of being reminded of the same thing each and every time, and interrupted again, curtly, but not harshly: "Good for you. But I still hate him."

Sometimes they talked about women, too. Lestrade didn't enjoy the topic much, but it was the only one he could find to try and distract John a bit from _Sherlock_, which was by far the topic that interested the doctor the most. No, Greg amended, it was the _only_ topic he gave a damn about, really. Still, Greg always tried to drop in a hint about finding a new partner, hoping John wouldn't return the advice.

"Listen, John, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I really think you should start seeing someone again."

John sighed. "This again? Come on, Greg..."

"You're obsessed."

"Yes, I am."

"But... Don't you think you ought to try at least?"

"I have," John replied bluntly. "Don't want to renew the experience, though."

"Why?"

John must have drunk quite a lot that day, for he admitted shamelessly: "All I can think about is him. Even when I'm in bed with a lovely woman. I can't think of anything else but him."

Greg had panicked the first time John had admitted to his feelings for Sherlock so openly, fearing he would start to cry and the situation would become out of control. But John hadn't cried. He'd kept a sad smile on his face for the rest of the evening, and Greg hadn't dared mention girlfriends again.

Time passed. Weeks, months. John continued to explore everything he learned from Greg about Sherlock. Last time he'd spoken to Mrs. Hudson, he'd found out John had gone to the bakery he'd once mentioned as part of a case Sherlock had solved. Greg stopped worrying too much, because John seemed to be getting better. The D.I. never gave up on mentioning Mycroft or a potential girlfriend - one time, he even learned John had actually tried spending the night with _a man._ He'd laughed his head off at the recounting. He'd laughed even more his head off when John got married and said man was at his wedding party!

Because John did get married, eventually. Greg was dumbfounded when he'd heard the news. The idiot had met a woman in a _gay bar_ that Greg had told him about, and where Sherlock had gone years ago to catch a murderer. He thought the whole thing pretty insane, but then again John wasn't the most sane man he knew, especially since Sherlock was no longer around. And Mary Morstan was a charming woman. Greg had to admit that it reassured him greatly to know that John was no longer alone. He deserved to find happiness.

* * *

><p><em>It's all love, all love, oh<br>It's all love, all love, oh  
>It's all love, all love, oh<em>

* * *

><p>After John got married, they saw less of each other. Greg regretted their evenings at the pub again, but he was content with knowing John was at home with his wife, in the flat he had shared with Sherlock. He new this must not have been easy for either of the spouses. But it was the happiest ending he could've thought of for John. As long as they were happy together, it didn't matter how twisted their relationship was. Greg certainly wouldn't be the one to judge them.<p>

The D.I. called John now and then to hear his voice and make sure he was all right. Everything was going well when one day John reported that he a Mary had found poisoned apples in a basket in front of their door. Lestrade received the news like a punch in the face. The 'Snow White' case hadn't been solved, but there hadn't been any victims in months now. This was a terrible turn of events: was it some kind of prank? Or had John's wife really been targeted? Either way, it preoccupied the D.I. to no end.

"Did you find anything at all?" John asked him once they were having a beer at the pub. Greg sighed.

"There must be a connection between the victims but we can't find it," he admitted grimly. The police actually considered there would be no more murders, which made it all the more difficult to investigate anything. "Surely there _must_ be a connection," he said, frustrated with their incompetence. With _his_ incompetence and inability to deal with something as crucial as this. It was his job's, for God's sake! Couldn't he do even that properly, when it was so important to John?

_"_Wrong."

_"_What?" Greg asked with bewilderment.

_"_Maybe there isn't."

_"_Maybe there isn't what?"

_"_A connection."

Greg blinked.

_"_Then why?"

_"_Maybe this is a game."

_"_John..." Greg began, not sure how to continue. He was filled with pity and concern, and tried not to make it evident to John; he knew the doctor would not appreciate it. "Sherlock is gone," he said as gently as he could.

He knew what John had in mind. Of course he'd thought about it too. This was oddly reminiscent of Moriarty's "games" with Sherlock. But Moriarty was dead. And Sherlock was no longer there to be played with.

Greg flinched. It would never stop to hurt, he thought. Some days the memory of Sherlock's death was unbearable, so crushing the D.I. had no idea how he had managed to muddle on all this time since the genius consulting detective had died. Every time he hit a wall, he always thought of Sherlock, of how he would have mocked him, how he would have explained everything as if it were obvious, insufferable and dazzling. Sometimes when he woke up he couldn't believe he had lost him forever.

There was nothing to be done. He had failed for Sherlock – oh, so pathetically failed. There was no going back. Not for him

But for John? For John, Lestrade was ready to do everything; everything Sherlock would have done.

_Ha! Because you think Sherlock would've given John his blessing to get married and have a family? You think he would've been his best man and the godfather of his child and been happy to see his only friend part from him and settle down?_

No. No, of course. Sherlock would have been his childish self. He would have been temperamental and possessive and jealous and... Well. No use thinking how Sherlock would have been. And who was Greg to assume he could imagine what would have gone through the genius's head? No, he couldn't; he never had.

But there was one thing, one thing Lestrade was absolutely certain of: Sherlock wanted John to live. And so all Greg could do was make sure John would, indeed, live; to the fullest, and along those he had decided to live. Lestrade would ensure it: he would protect John's life with all he had. John had to live.

After all, it was what Sherlock had died for.

* * *

><p><em>It's all love <em>

_My stupid love_

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

.

.

_tbc_


	39. Castigat ridendo mores

**A/N: **I realized I'd have to update almost once a week in order to finish this story early enough to attract readers before season 3 is aired... So I'll try :) But everything seems to be against me - like the increasing length of my chapters! I have no idea how this happened. Next chapter is bound to be very long as well (it's Moran centric ;) ) and I'm not sure about those after that. We are getting closer to the end after all! I've also been thinking lately that I will have to edit this story not only for the style and spelling or grammar mistakes once it is complete, but also to make all the chapters in the first half - i.e. before the tribute to Moriarty - longer than they are now. Anyway, enough blathering. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! And as always... reviewers are loved :)

**...**

******Nutrisco et extinguo:**** **_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"__  
><em>

_**Castigat ridendo mores: **__"one corrects customs (or habits, behaviours) by laughing at them"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXXVIII: Castigat ridendo mores<strong>

_Soldier, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I don't believe in anything but myself<br>I don't believe in anything but myself  
>But then you opened up the door, you opened up the door<br>Now I start to believe in something else_

* * *

><p>"Hi Mary. Is John home?"<p>

"Greg! It's good to see you. It's been a while."

The D.I. smiles at her warmly, if a little apologetically. Mary truly is glad to see him.

Since she has stopped working at the school – and she really tried to go on maternity leave as late as possible – she has been dawdling around the flat, rarely venturing out alone. John begged her not to. He seems to believe someone will jump on her at every corner and force a poisoned apple into her mouth. It doesn't make sense, and it annoys her sometimes, but she reckons it is sweet of him to worry so much.

"Please come in!" she tells him as she goes to turn off the music.

"That was a beautiful piece," Lestrade comments. "What is it?"

"Rusalka's Song to the Moon. It's Czech."

He nods. "I'm sorry I haven't been visiting lately, I've been busy."

"It's okay. You're working." She says it a little sullenly, as if work was a treat everyone enjoyed but of which she alone had been unfairly deprived. But that's how she feels about it after all. "Aren't you on duty now?"

He nods as he sits down at the table. She comes back from the kitchen and serves him some tea, mechanically, without asking. "I am," he answers. "I was near-by, and since I have some time ahead of me I thought I'd drop by and say hello."

"That's very kind of you. Although I take it it wasn't me you were visiting." She winks and sits down carefully.

"You all right?" Lestrade inquires.

"M'fine. Just the back hurting. Like an old lady."

"Like a pregnant woman."

"Right."

They exchange an amused smile.

"So when do you expect...?"

"Less than a month."

Greg's eyes widen. "Really? God, it's already been nine months. Time sure flies by."

"I suppose it does."

She looks down at her tea, gazing at her own misshapen, wavering reflection. Time did fly by. She hadn't realized just how soon the baby would be born, how soon she would have to move out; how soon John and her would start going on with their lives. Separately.

"You must be excited."

Her head snaps up sharply and she can read on Greg's face that he is wondering whether he's said something rude unwittingly. Her face softens and she tries to focus on the conversation. _He'll think I'm a loony_, she muses, unable to completely shake off the thought herself.

"I am. I thought I wouldn't be that impatient to have something screaming and crying and drooling and pooping in the flat, but I've grown rather tired of the kicking and now I'm really looking forward to having it out of my belly."

She can tell Lestrade is embarrassed and isn't sure how to reply to that, so she bursts out laughing.

"I'm teasing you, Greg. I'm an old woman stuck in a flat all day by herself, I'm so bored I feel like my brain is rotting away."

As Greg looks at her strangely, she feels the atmosphere change in the room. This has been happening increasingly often these past few months; Mary wonders if it is linked to her living with John and spending so much time with him, or if she has developed a fifth sense of some sort. She sighs.

"He used to say that a lot, didn't he?"

"Who?" Greg asks with some confusion as her question rouses him from his thoughts.

Mary shrugs. "Who do you think?"

"You're pretty sharp, you know."

"Only when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, I'm afraid," she grumbles before taking a sip of tea.

"No, I'm serious. Sometimes you remind me of him."

She stares at the D.I. pointedly. _You guys are_ always _reminded of him._

"Really? The hair, perhaps?"

"No, not the hair," he retorts, laughter in his voice. "But your attitude. Your words, sometimes. I don't know. Maybe it's just an impression."

"But that's what matter, isn't it?" she asks lightly. Her gaze falls on a bouquet of mimosa standing proud on the mantelpiece, next to the grinning skull, which currently seems to be rather grimacing, not appreciating very much to have yellow pompoms falling on his head. That is, on him. It is just a head after all. Mary grins back.

"What does?" Greg asks, more puzzled than ever. He'll really think she's crazy, won't he? Oh well. She's pregnant and tired. People tend to be more tolerant in such cases.

"Impressions. And I think you are probably right, too. It would make sense." She drinks more tea. Her lips twitch a little, craving a cigarette. She serves herself more tea.

"Why?"

"Well, I imagine it would explain why John proposed to me the very day we met."

"Mary..."

"Oh don't give me that look!" She chuckles. "It doesn't make me sad. It's such a good memory after all; one I'll have a lot of fun recounting to my kids. Kid. Whatever."

"No, listen Mary, it's important. John loves you genuinely. I don't know what happened between you two exactly, and I can't pretend I understand him perfectly. Hell, I thought he'd gone insane when he announced he was getting married to a woman he'd just met, literally!"

He shakes his head, remembering the first time he heard the news. Mary smiles. It's good to know John has such friends as Greg. She's glad the D.I. and him overcame what had brought them apart in Sherlock's death, and still enjoy each other's company, perhaps now more than before.

"But I know one thing," Greg continues. "He married you for... Well, for you. Just for you. He was never looking for Sherlock's replacement."

"I know," Mary says softly. "I know all that."

"You don't seem very convinced, though."

"I am. I really am. I know for sure that he never intended to replace Sherlock in any way."

Something in Greg's expression tells her he's realized his blunder – or what he probably construes as a blunder anyway. But he doesn't babble an apology or make for a hasty exit.

"Believe me," he says instead, "you wouldn't have wanted to be Sherlock's substitute. You're much better company as you are."

Mary snorts but cannot hide her knowing smirk.

"You won't hear me argue against that!"

She allows herself a cheeky green. She definitely likes John's friends.

* * *

><p><em>But how do I know if I'll make it through?<br>How do I know? Where's the proof in you?_

* * *

><p>"Mmmmh, this is delicious! Harry you're so lucky to be married to a cook. You really don't know your luck."<p>

"Oh yes I do," John's sister replies happily.

Every time Mary comes for lunch, as she regularly does since John has accepted a full-time job as a practitioner from the clinic he was working at, she tells herself next time she'll try to fall in love with a cook. Ideally, with one as talented as Chris.

"By the way Mary, Seb told me you've become quite good at the guitar!" the red-haired woman said.

"He's lying. I haven't been able to practice at all with this stupid stomach of mine! Look at me, I look like a whale!"

"I wouldn't say that," Chris retorts.

"But John gave you the guitar for your birthday and that was in May! You've had plenty of time to practice with Seb. He's quite good at it, isn't he?" Harry asks rhetorically.

"He is," Mary confirms, her mouth full.

"I'm sure it's part of his lady-killer paraphernalia," Harry says with conviction. Chris shakes her head with fond amusement.

"So, Mary, how has John been?"

"Good. He's working."

"You say that as if it were fun," Harry says between two bites.

"But it is fun!" Mary exclaims.

"He's a GP," Chris points out quietly, a smile on her face.

"You mean not a school teacher?" Mary retorts playfully. "Yeah, I know that. But his job must be fun to some extent if he decides to do it full-time when I'm pregnant and alone in the flat."

Her tone is cheerful, but Chris and Harry still exchange a look.

"You know John is doing it for you and the baby," Harry says before Chris managed to convey with her eyes the message: don't meddle, she's joking. "He is the man of the family after all, isn't he? He should feel responsible and want a full-time job, now that he's gonna be a father."

"Yes, well, he could've waited," Mary mumbles, somewhat grumpy, poking the food with her fork viciously.

"He would've waited a while if he had turned down their offer this time," Chris says, ever the voice of wisdom. Mary rolls her eyes.

"I know. I'm just being difficult, because I'm pregnant and I want a giant teddy bear to cuddle with at home. Nothing wrong with that!"

Harry chokes on her food and brings a towel to her mouth.

"My brother?" she says, disbelieving, once she has swallowed. "A giant teddy bear?" She bursts out laughing. "God, Mary, John's a soldier! A teddy bear? Ha ha ha!"

"Yes, he is," Mary comments absent-mindedly. John is a soldier. Sometimes she has a hard time picturing him at the front; but then some other times, she doesn't find it hard to imagine at all.

"When can he get paternity leave?"

"When the baby's born. And only for a week or two."

Chris gives her a sympathizing smile.

"I might ask him to get some additional paternity leave, though, if I go back to work early."

"John? Take care of a baby alone?"

"He's a doctor. Plus, I don't want him rushing headlong in work to... I don't know."

"Run away from his duties as a father?" Harry supplies, not very helpfully. Chris frowns at her.

"Maybe. Not exactly. As you said, that's why he's trying to make more money in the first place, spending less time on... well, Sherlock. Writing his blog, trying to figure out what that crazy genius meant in his notebook... He was never idle, you know, even when he worked part-time. I know he's doing this for us. But I wonder... Anyway. I want him to spend time with his son, too."

She falls silent. It isn't really awkward, or at least Mary doesn't feel like it is. But maybe she's wrong, because soon Chris starts the conversation again.

"It's good it really turned out to be a son, isn't it?"

Mary beams.

"I knew it would be!"

She was about to say how wonderful a boy was and how much better than a girl, but was interrupted by the door bell ringing.

"Oh, that'll be John," Chris says as she stands up, going to open the door.

"I love Fridays," Mary declares. John finishes work around noon on Fridays. When he announced he was considering working full-time, she had refused right away, saying they'd just be careful with the money, and she didn't want him to be away from home all the time. She found many reasons, made up excuses; she knew that considering their situation, she wasn't supposed to act like a wife entitled to ask her husband to spend time with her. She'd been the one to say she wanted a divorce after all. But John never mentioned it again. He simply takes care of her, attentive and loving as always. Sometimes Mary completely forgets they even had that conversation. But only sometimes. Like when he came to discuss with her the matter of taking up a full-time job at the clinic. In the end he has managed to convince her – mostly by explaining that full-time only meant 37.5 hours a week, so that he would be home at 5.30pm every day and at 1pm on Fridays, with the weekends off. Admittedly he had to get up early to be at work at 8am; but Mary was used to getting up early for school anyway. Moreover, she could have a lie in if she felt like: she wasn't the one working at the clinic now, was she?

"Hello love," John says as he presses a kiss on her brow. "Daydreaming again, aren't we?"

Mary pouts and decides to ignore the comment.

"Don't tease her, John," Harry chides him gently.

"Have you had lunch already?" Chris asks him.

"I haven't, actually. But I'm not hungry."

Harry furrowed her brow. "You're not taking the opportunity to eat a delicious meal prepared by Chef Chris? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm just not hungry. Sorry Chris."

"No problem, John. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?"

"Just water, thank you."

While they talk, Mary watches her husband warily. Then resumes eating and joins into the discussion again. She really likes John's family.

* * *

><p><em>And so it goes, this soldier knows<br>The battle with the heart isn't easily won  
>And so it goes, this soldier knows<br>The battle with the heart isn't easily won  
>But it can be won, but it can be won<em>

* * *

><p>"What happened this morning at the clinic?"<p>

"Mm?"

Mary gives him a look but John doesn't see it. They arrived home about fifteen minutes ago. John helped Mary in the stairs and held the door for her, gentle as ever. She fell in the armchair and he prepared some tea for them, then came to sit next to her and started reading the paper. Mary knows he is careful not to turn on his laptop the moment he is home, or to go through the pages of Sherlock's notebook for the umpteenth time. It's silly, really, because that's what he's dying to do. But Mary is grateful nonetheless. John is such a considerate man. And an idiot, too. She wants to tell him she doesn't mind, even ask him to read out the notebook to her, because she enjoys speculating about the meaning of it with John. But today there is a more important matter to be seen to.

"Don't 'mm?' me. I can tell you're upset. So what happened?"

John sighs but puts down the paper, revealing a small smile. He looks tired. Now Mary really is worried. She waits a moment, then comes to sit closer.

"Don't wanna talk about it?"

Spontaneously John takes her hand in his and starts rubbing his thumb on her palm. She knows he doesn't do it consciously. It's the kind of gestures he had with her when he's troubled about something, and that betray how intimate they are, without even realizing it. The kind of gestures Mary doesn't usually pay attention to, because for her, too, it feels only natural, but that she relishes when she notices it. Like now.

"That's not it," John murmurs. "It's not that I don't want to talk about it, but..."

He takes a deep breath and sighs. His touch becomes more nervous on Mary's hand. "There's this patient I have. She comes regularly. I think... I think she's suffering from domestic violence."

Mary presses his hand in hers. "You mean she's been abused?"

John nods. "That, and... I think she is assaulted sexually on a regular basis," he finally lets out, clenching his teeth. Mary's eyes widen.

"You mean... her husband rapes her?" He nods. "And hits her?" He nods. "Can we kill him?" He smiles shakily.

"I wish."

"Well... Can you report it to anyone?"

"No. She's said nothing to me."

Mary swallows. "She's said nothing, and I'm quite sure that she would deny it. I tried to hint at it today to talk to her about it, but the moment she understood what I was trying to say she very clearly told me to mind my own business and to stop making ridiculous assumptions."

"I see. Well..."

There is nothing to say, really. John's right to be upset. This is very upsetting, and there is nothing they can do about it.

"Do you think she'll come back to see you?"

"I don't know. Maybe she'll look for another doctor. But she probably wants as few people to know about it as possible, so she might come back."

Mary starts rubbing her thumb on John's palm soothingly.

"If she does, maybe you should just tell her. Give her advice – strictly medical, of course... I don't know, insist on the risks."

They fall silent.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to talk about this," John says after a while.

Mary scowls. "Why?"

"Because it's upsetting. It's not pretty."

"And you think I can't deal with not pretty?"

"I wish you wouldn't have to."

"Oh, John, you big idiot! Come here," she orders, pulling him into a hug. "You are the most idiotic teddy bear I've ever had."

"And the one who tells the gloomiest story, I'm sure."

"Idiot."

They cuddle for a while, Mary couldn't say how long. He is resting his head on her shoulder, where she put it herself, and she is resting her head on his. The skull is grinning at her under the mimosa. Sherlock's notebook is lying on the kitchen table, next to John's laptop. The flat is warm and it feels like home, a presence enveloping them. She closes her eyes.

"Are you all right?" John eventually asks.

"Of course I am!" She gets up to take her knitting on one of the kitchen chairs. John smiles.

"Made any progress?"

"Of course I have!"

"Of course," John echoes. Mary sticks her tongue at him. He chuckles.

"You're so whimsical these days."

"I'm pregnant."

"You have been for months."

"Well, I'm _more_ pregnant."

"That doesn't make any sense, darling," he teases tenderly, kissing her temple as he walks past her to pour himself some tea.

"Oh really, _sweetheart?_ Honey? Sugar?"

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to find the most stupid name to call you. Why are they all sugary? It's nauseating."

"Mary..."

"I mean, seriously! Doesn't it make you physically nauseous if you're always hearing sugar this and honey that and... Oh! Sweetie pie. There. That's a nice one."

"Right. Lovely," John comments as he turns on his laptop. "What are you even trying to make? Socks?"

"Hunny Bun, Pumpkin, Cupcake..."

Mary knows John is rolling his eyes even though her eyes are on her knitting. "Mrs. Hudson's cupcakes were so good yesterday!"

"Did you learn how to make them?"

"Why?"

"I don't know, she teaches you how to knit, so..."'

"...so she might as well teach me how to bake? Why, thank you, John. I'm glad you have such a liberal approach to the role of women at home."

"What the... You're the one who said you wanted to knit! And you're the one who loves cakes!"

"You love them too."

"Not that much."

"Right, you prefer spices."

John looks at her. She raises her head and looks back.

"Mary..."

"I didn't mean anything," she cuts in preemptively. "Stop seeing metaphors everywhere."

"But you see them too..." he remarks softly.

She sighs. "Mrs. Hudson will kill me. Look at what I did!" She shows John her knitting.

"Well?"

"It's supposed to be a bonnet!"

"Ah..." He bits his lips. Mary glares, and this seems to be the last straw; he breaks into laughter.

"It's not funny!"

"Oh yes it is."

"Well you try it! You'll see!"

"You're adorable, you know."

Her venomous glower does not seem to make John change his mind on the matter.

* * *

><p><em>I sit in the back of a bus watching the world grow old<br>Watching the world go by all by myself  
>I took a faith full leap and packed up all my things and<br>All my love and gave it to somebody else_

* * *

><p>It's funny how even when John isn't around the flat is filled with his presence. Mary wonders briefly if that's how John feels about Sherlock, and how Sherlock felt about John when he used to keep talking to him even when he was away.<p>

As she pours herself some coffee she thinks of John because they bought matching mugs – weird ones with cartoon chicks goggling. Mary wonders how they ended up buying them. Well. The chicks were yellow.

She seats down at the kitchen table and checks her emails on John's laptop. Her face lights up when she sees she's got one from Cathy.

_**Hello Beauty!**_

_**Jerry and everyone are so boring when you're not around. I really miss you! So tell me when is a good time for me to drop by :))**_

Mary smiles and shakes her head. Cathy was always good at inviting herself over. Mary replies hastily and then turns to the interesting stuff: Sherlock's notebook.

She doesn't care about the notebook so to speak, and God knows she isn't obsessed about the consulting detective like a certain someone. But John told her about the ciphers at the bottom of the page – those saying "Mycroft you are an idiot" – and she found it so hilarious she decided to study the various encrypting methods online and, most of all, discover the two passwords to the last messages. Since she knows the meaning of the message, she thought it would be easy to find a tool online to crack the keyword: after all, it's usually the message one wants to find out, not the keyword.

But it isn't easy. She found tools online that could help encode or decode a message with a keyword, but you still have to enter the keyword. Mary sighs. Curiosity killed the cat, they say. But Mary is curious. She is incredibly, unhealthily curious. Mycroft's reaction when John asked him what the keywords were, and Sherlock's cheekiness towards his brother, tells her the keywords must be significant.

She pouts at the screen. _Why?_ she wonders with annoyance. _Why is the stupid keyword necessary? I have the message already!_ Her moue turns into a glare at the laptop's lack of response.

WHY, she types in the square for the keyword, and "Why!" she exclaims for emphasis, pressing the Enter button dramatically. Her eyes widen as her theatrics are what eventually lead her somewhere. On the screen, the message decoded with the keyword WHY has just appeared: _Mycroft you are an idiot._

Feverishly, her heart hammering with excitement and anticipation, she tries again. Typing the sentence "Mycroft you are an idiot", she enters the keyword WHY and presses _Encode message._

IFANVDPFMQHPAHLEKGKA

Quickly she turns the pages of the notebook and compares both ciphers.

"That's it!" she cries out with delight. "The first keyword is 'why'! Ha ha ha!"

The discovery makes her ridiculously happy.

"Wonderful! 'Why'... Why? It must be a question. But why why?"

Her eyes fall on the notebook again. _Mycroft you are an idiot. Why?_ Oh. But that's it.

_**Mycroft, you are an idiot.**_

_**Why?**_

Because...

"That's it! The second keyword must be the answer! Sherlock had been mimicking a _dialogue_ with his brother!"

Mary is thrilled. It isn't that she cares that much about the Holmes brother, Sherlock or Mycroft. She is just curious. Nothing wrong with that.

All right, so maybe she does care. John's affection is contagious. Mary wishes she'd met Sherlock when he was still alive, wishes she'd seen him and Mycroft interact, because it sounded most entertaining when John recounted it to her. Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes are fascinating men, like characters in books. They are amazing and infuriating and complex. Mary has no idea how John stood to live with Sherlock – well, because he was in love, she imagines, and even before that he cared so much – and she would no doubt have gone bonkers if she'd had to share a flat with him. But having the Holmes as _friends_ or as _acquaintances_ must have been a lot of fun, and she regrets to have missed out on it.

"Keyword, keyword... God, this is excruciating!" She was so lucky to have found the first one at random; but now how could she ever hope to get as much luck with the _second_ one? "Oh, please! Now that I know it's the answer..."

She frowns at the screen. "All right, let's go for childish. Sherlock was childish after all."

BECAUSE, she types. Enter. Wrong. It doesn't work. "That's not it, then," she mutters. It could have been: Sherlock was cheeky, and when he wrote this he was still a kid. The final answer to the question "Why is Mycroft an idiot?" could well have been "Because." With a full stop. But it wasn't.

"Why, then? Why is Mycroft an idiot?"

"I'm not sure he'd be happy to hear you, dear."

Mary jumps and turns towards the voice.

"Mrs. Hudson! I hadn't heard you come in at all!"

"Well, obviously. I knocked, you know."

"You did?" Mary blinks. She hasn't heard anything. Then again, she's been talking to herself aloud...

"Twice, dear. You seemed quite engrossed. What are you doing?"

"Trying to decipher a message. Or rather, to find the keyword to decipher it."

"Oh! Sherlock would've loved this."

"I'm sure," Mary replies moodily. "He's the one who encoded it!"

Mrs. Hudson puts the cookies she has brought on the table and takes the kettle to fill it with water. She does that whenever she comes, now. Taking care of Mary like a mother while John is away. Always Mary feels a wave of fondness wash over her, but not today. Today she is too irritated with the bloody ciphers.

"Was this is his notebook?" Mrs. Hudson asks kindly.

Mary nods.

"See these ciphers at the bottom of the pages? They all say: 'Mycroft you are an idiot'."

"Oh dear."

"I know. What a brat, huh?"

"He must have known Mycroft would find the notebook eventually," Mrs. Hudson said affectionately.

"He must have guessed," Mary corrected.

"So if you know what the message is, what are you trying to decrypt?"

"The keywords. Here, look. See these? The ones written in red ink."

"Yes?"

"They're encrypted with different methods. More complicated ones. This is was encrypted using the Vigenèse square, and this one, the Playfair cipher."

"Playfair?"

Mary grins.

"Funny, isn't it?"

"He always had a twisted sense of humour," Mrs. Hudson notes gravely. It makes Mary want to laugh even more.

"In these methods," she went on, "a keyword is used to encrypt the message. I found the first keyword by accident, but I can't find the second one."

"What was the first one?"

Mary gives her a mysterious smile. "Why," she says theatrically.

"Why?" Mrs. Hudson repeats, puzzled. "Is that the keyword?"

Mary nods eagerly, looking at the screen again. "Yes. That's it. Now I want to know what the second keyword is even more."

"So that's the reason you were asking why Mycroft was an idiot when I came in," Mrs. Hudson says with a chuckle.

"Right," Mary answers most seriously.

"Why Mycroft is an idiot," Mrs. Hudson repeats pensively, her gaze drifting.

"That's the problem, isn't it," Mary grumbles. "He isn't actually an idiot. Even to Sherlock, he couldn't possibly have appeared to be an idiot. Especially not to Sherlock."

"I suppose not," Mrs. Hudson replies slowly. Mary arches an eyebrow.

"You _suppose_ not?"

Mrs. Hudson is looking at the notebook but not really seeing it, Mary can tell.

"Well, Mycroft is an idiot in some way. A little like Sherlock, but even worse than him in that respect."

"What do you mean?"

Mrs. Hudson gets up to pour the boiled water in the tea pot. Mary loves to have her fussing over her and John.

"Mycroft is an idiot because he cares and will not admit it," she says. Mary tilts her head to the side. "You see, he wants to believe he is cold blooded and heartless – impervious to _sentiments_."

"Well, maybe he is," Mary comments pensively. "In some way. His job is his whole life, right? He doesn't have anyone; probably doesn't truly care about anyone." Upon meeting Mrs. Hudson disapproving gaze, she adds quickly: "I'm not saying he _doesn't_ give a damn about people like you or John or... The only thing I'm saying is that maybe there isn't anyone he deeply cares about, in the strong sense of the term. You see what I mean?"

Mrs. Hudson smiles knowingly, if a little wistfully. "Not anyone, really?"

"Well, not anyone except Sher... Oh."

Mary's eyes sparkle.

_You are an idiot._

_Why?_

"One word," she says restlessly, turning to the screen, "the keyword has to be one word."

It keeps echoing in her mind, as if the message was addressed to her. _You're an idiot. An idiot. Why?_

CARING, she types.

**Mycroft you are an idiot.**

"Mrs. Hudson, you're wonderful!" Mary cries out. "We did it!"

But already she feels her excitement recede and leave a sense of unease and denial in her chest. As if the words were addressed to her.

_You are an idiot._

Mary hugs Mrs. Hudson gaily.

_Why?_

Her eyes fall on her mug with the goggling chicks.

_Because you care about me._

* * *

><p><em>But how do I know if I'll make it through?<em>  
><em>How do I know? Where's the proof in you?<em>

_And so it goes, this soldier knows_  
><em>The battle with the heart isn't easily won<em>

* * *

><p>"Pretty Mary! How are you doing today?"<p>

"Don't call me that, Seb," she groans as she closes the door behind him.

"Would you rather I called you Bloody Mary?" he asks her with a wink. She rolls her eyes.

"Here, I brought you flowers," he adds before she can complain again, handing her a bunch of daffodils.

"Oh they're beautiful!" Seb opens his mouth but she forestalls him. "And don't say 'just like you'," she warns, raising a finger, on teacher mode.

"Aw, why?"

"Because it's cheesy."

"Fine, fine."

"But thanks for the flowers," she says with a boyish grin.

"No problem. I found them nice-looking, although I prefer roses."

"Really? Yellow roses?"

"No, red roses of course! The colour of love and passion!"

"...Right."

Mary goes into the kitchen and puts the flowers in a vase.

"It smells very good here. Have you baked something?"

"Yes!" She beams. "An apple pie! It's almost done baking."

Seb gives her a strange look.

"What? You think I can't bake a proper pie?"

Sebastian's face breaks into a wolfish grin. "No. I'm just thinking that John is a lucky man."

Mary shrugs. "If you make passes at me I'll tell my husband."

"Come on, flirting never killed anyone," he says playfully. "And you're not staying married for long, are you?"

Mary glares. "Well that's not of your business now, is it?"

"Oh Mary I was just kidding. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I know you even flirted with John."

"He told you that?"

She nods, her lips curving up in a satisfied smirk. "Well, I won in the end, didn't I?"

She sticks her tongue at him and Seb laughs.

"What a woman!"

"Why did you even come here in the first place? You know I can't play the guitar like this."

"I know," Seb says as she serves him coffee – black, no sugar. "But I can."

"You came to play for me?"

"Problem?"

She smiles. "Wait 'til John gets home and finds you serenading me."

And so Seb starts playing the guitar while Mary takes her pie out of the oven, elated to see she succeeded and showing Seb excitedly. He simply nods at her, smiling. She takes her mug of tea and joins Seb in the living-room.

The song he plays has a Bohemian tone to it, festive and poetic all at once, sometimes light-hearted, sometimes soulful.

"You really are good at it," she grumbles. Seb looks pleased.

As he plays on, Mary finds herself daydreaming again, as John says. About Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Sherlock; John and Lestrade, too.

"He died because he cared," she murmurs.

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Say, Seb..."

"Mm?"

"Do you have friends?"

He stares.

"How am I supposed to take that?" he says with a laugh.

"Don't be stupid. I mean... Like a real friend. Someone you've shared stuff with. A partner in crime, y'know?"

"I know," he says quietly, looking at his fingers dancing on the chords. Mary frowns.

"You know?"

Sebastian remains pensive for a moment, and Mary lets him drift into memories of things past.

"I do have a good buddy," he says at last. "Ron. Went to college together. Good guy."

"Still see him sometimes?"

"Of course! What do you think?"

"I don't know! It's just that we never met him. You're such a mysterious man, Seb."

"Oh, and is that good?" he asks with a seductive smile.

"Probably," she concedes. Then with a wink: "But I prefer the teddy bear type."

* * *

><p><em>And so it goes, this soldier knows<br>The battle with the heart isn't easily won _

_But it can be won, but it can be won  
>But it can be won, but it can be won<em>

* * *

><p>"We didn't have to take a cab, you know," Mary mumbles.<p>

"I know we didn't _have_ to," John assures her. "Turn left here," he tells the cabbie.

"But you insisted."

"I just didn't want you to take the stairs in the underground, and we're too late to take a bus – I'm not even sure we'll arrive on time."

"Molly will understand if we don't. I'm sure she's not the kind of woman to be bothered by such things."

"Maybe," John says dismissively, looking out the window and keeping an eye on their route.

"I'm happy to see her again. It's been a while we haven't had dinner with her and Shinwell."

"It is. Hey, why did you turn here? It's shorter if you take Dean Street!"

The cabbie apologizes and says he is starting on this job, but Mary doesn't listen to him. Her attention is all on John as he gives directions. Even when he looks tired, there is warmth and gentleness on his face. And even when he is annoyed, he still looks adorable. Actually, maybe even more when he is annoyed, she muses.

"What are you smirking about?"

"Nothing. I love you."

"I love you too," he answers easily. Mary knows he means it, as much as he can mean it.

"You've come to know London very well," she notes.

John smiles.

"I guess I have, yes."

"Who knew you becoming Sherlock's stalker could have such a positive effect?" she teases.

"Of course it has positive effects!" John protests. "I've learned a lot thanks to his past cases. I've found many great places, that bakery you like, and..."

He laces his fingers with Mary's and she stops herself from rolling her eyes, knowing what's coming next. "... and I got to meet you."

"That's right. We'll make sure to thank him when we go visit his grave on All Saints' Day."

She can feel John's befuddled stare on her.

"All Saints' Day? I didn't know you were–"

"I'm not. But... Well, I suppose it's the natural time to go. But we can visit his grave anytime, really."

"Do you want to?"

Mary nods. "I've never been close to a dead person. I mean, someone who died. But it feels right to go visit them sometimes, don't you think? Not that Sherlock isn't always there with us, but..."

She notices John glance worriedly at the cabbie, who is obviously trying to look at ease and failing. Mary has a Cheshire cat-like grin.

"I love having him with us, of course, and that's not what I'm saying! I mean, considering he'd dead, he's no trouble feeding or anything."

"Mary..." John says, warning in his voice. He doesn't like it when she teases strangers, but she cannot help it.

"Don't lean in like this!" she chides. "I know he's non-substantial, but still, you can't sit on him! Are you all right, Sherlock?" she asks an invisible figure between them. John sighs in defeat and the cabbie speeds up, most likely to reach their destination quickly and get them out of his cab as soon as possible.

* * *

><p><em>And so it goes, this soldier knows<br>The battle with the heart isn't easily won  
>And so it goes, this soldier knows<br>The battle with the heart isn't easily won_

* * *

><p>"Cathy!"<p>

"Mary, my love! It's been so long!" her friend says as she gives her a hug. "God, you're huge."

"Thank you."

"How have you been doing? Nice dress you've got there."

"I'm fine, thanks. Coffee?"

Cathy nods eagerly, looking around the flat.

"It's the first time I come here, y'know."

"I know," Mary replies evenly, going to the kitchen to prepare some coffee.

"And you've been living here for months!" her friend insists, picking up the skull and looking at it with round eyes.

"Indeed. Put that down, will you?"

"You've got a skull in your flat?"

"No, it's a crystal ball you're holding."

Cathy puts the skull down and turns to Mary with a pout. "Sarcastic as ever, aren't we?"

"Don't be sour. I never got the chance to invite you over, and although I've been here for months, I've known for months that I would move out sooner than expected, so I really didn't see the point."

Cathy's expression becomes serious. She joins Mary in the kitchen and sits down at the table quietly.

"You know, Mary, I really don't understand you."

"Nothing new under the sun."

"You wanted that man so bad, not just as a man, but as an actual boyfriend and bloody _husband._ And once you got everything you wanted, you tell him you want a divorce?"

Mary sighs. She turns to her friend, leaning back against the sink, waiting for the coffee to brew.

"We've already had this conversation."

"Yeah, I know. But Mary, has anything changed between you two at all? Every time I see you with John, you seem like any happy married couple. You look good together, and by that I mean there really is a sense of intimacy between you guys, as if you'd known each other your whole life."

"Like childhood friends?" Mary asks lightly.

"Yeah, something like that," Cathy concurs. Then she meets Mary's amused gaze and rolls her eyes. "Fine, so you feel like he's your best friend rather than your lover. But isn't that what you felt toward me as well? I think you've got a tendency to run away when you're happy, girl. I'm serious."

"I wasn't happy with you, Cath."

"Ouch, that hurts."

"You asked for it."

"Maybe," Cathy confirms reluctantly. "But tell me, has anything really changed between you and John? It feels like he doesn't really intend to divorce you, y'know..."

"Well I do."

"Yes, well..."

"And things did change."

"Really?"

"We don't sleep together anymore."

Cathy shrugs.

"You told him you want a divorce, love, what else can you expect?"

"It's not him. It's me."

"Again?!"

Mary glares at her ex before serving the coffee. "He understands."

"He sure is understanding. So you really don't love him anymore?"

"I love him."

Cathy lets out a sigh of exasperation and takes her cup of coffee. "Then you're not attracted to him anymore?"

"I am."

"God, Mary, what is _wrong_ with you?"

"What do you feel in this flat?"

Cathy frowns. "What?"

"Do you feel like it's the flat of newlyweds expecting a baby?"

"Well... Yeah. Maybe not newlyweds, it doesn't feel new like that. It's comfy. Like you've been living together for quite a while already. And yeah, I can tell you're expecting a baby, with that knitting lying around and those magazines and–"

"But we haven't been living together for quite a while, have we," Mary says quietly, sitting down with her mug of tea. She looks at the chicks.

"What are you saying? You don't like the flat?"

"I do. It feels like home."

"Then–"

"And like we're three in the house."

Silence. Cathy is staring at her, observing her. But Mary does not feel threatened under her scrutiny. Cathy is her closest friend, but her gaze can read Mary less easily than some other gazes...

"Which is fine," Mary goes on eventually. "I actually like it. A bit as if I had moved into a family house or something... There are memories everywhere. And Mrs. Hudson, too, who is _not our housekeeper_. Who wasn't _their_ housekeeper, either."

"Rebecca syndrome, then?"

Mary blinks. Then she remembers the movie and the book and bursts out laughing. "No, God no! Nothing like that. I'm sleeping in Sherlock's bedroom after all, and–"

_"Your_ bedroom," Cathy cuts in firmly. Mary stops speaking. "It's _your_ bedroom now."

Mary looks down at her tea. "Is it?" she says casually.

"Does John ever refer to it as Sherlock's bedroom? Does he make you feel like you're not welcome here?"

"No! No, not at all. John is... great, really. He's just amazing."

Cathy groans in frustration and drinks her coffee in one go as if to calm her nerves.

"You're impossible, Mary."

"He doesn't hit me. He doesn't even force sex on me even though we're married."

"Mary! He would have no right to do that! It'd be rape nonetheless!"

Mary nods. "Yes. But it happens. He really is such a wonderful guy."

"'Cause he doesn't rape you? What the hell, Mary..."

"Even in sex he was lovely," she goes on, ignoring her friend. "Always very considerate. Loving, too. I could tell he was touching only me, trying to please only me, and thinking only of me."

"What was the problem, then?" Cathy grumbles, clearly tired of trying to understand her ex. "If he's a wonderful husband and loving and respectful and great at sex..."

"When he was touched, I could tell he saw only Sherlock."

Her voice is serene and almost tender, but upon hearing it Cathy feels her irritation crumble to pieces. She takes Mary's hand in hers.

"Mary..."

"It felt a bit like a threesome, you see?" Mary says with a chuckle. "No matter how I touched him, it was as if any kind of deeply rooted feeling or extreme sensation could only be linked to _him._ As if only Sherlock could _touch_ John, in every sense of the word."

"Mary."

"It does feel like home, and I love it here. I love him. But sometimes I feel like I'm playing gooseberry."

"Then why are you still here?" Cathy asks gravely. "I know you're pregnant and all that, but Jerry or me could've taken care of you. Why are you staying with him when obviously it's only hurting you?"

Mary shakes her head and smiles. "You're wrong," she replies. "No only."

"But he's in love with someone else! He's trying, all right, but doesn't it make the situation even harder on you? If that's how you feel – if what you've just told me is how you feel – you were right to tell him you wanted to divorce."

"Yes, I think I was."

Cathy squeezes Mary's hand in hers and looks her in the eye.

"Then don't be a fool now and don't change your mind. You know it's for the best, anyone would. It's quite simple."

Mary squeezes back reassuringly and gives her a warm smile. She's grateful for her friend to be so concerned about her well-being. But sometimes Cathy can be so obtuse...

"I'm not changing my mind, Cath. But you're wrong. Whatever this is, it's not simple." Mary looks away, missing the pained look on Cathy's face, and repeats absently: "It's not simple."

* * *

><p><em>And so it goes, this soldier knows<br>(And so it goes)  
>The battle with the heart isn't easily won<br>(The war is won)_

_But it can be won_

* * *

><p>Above the fireplace the skull is grinning under the moonlight. John is lying asleep on the couch, his face beautiful and peaceful. By the window a man is standing, a violin in hand. Softly Mary walks in, her eyes following the strands of silver running in the stranger's curls. The moon is huge outside. Mary opens her mouth to say something but just then the man brings the instrument to his chin and begins to play. A voice resounds in the moonlit darkness.<p>

_Mĕsíčku na nebi hlubokém,_

_Svĕtlo tvé daleko vidi,_

_Po svĕtĕ bloudíš širokém,_

_Díváš se příbytky lidí..._

On the couch John does not stir. The sky outside is deep and dark. It is so vast it seems to be swallowing the street and the buildings across and the lights; only the moon rays pierce it, burning the last remains of the world below. Soon it becomes oppressive. Mary runs to the window, pushing past the man, and opens it wide. She finds herself under the spotlight, as if the moon rays had been the front beams of a car or the search lights of a helicopter. Mary trips and falls from the window. Her first thought is not to scream so as to not wake up John, so she brings a fist to her mouth and bites it.

_Mĕsíčku postůj chvíli,_

_Řekni mi, kde je můj milý ?_

She ends up on the road and the violin and the voice are still filling the air. Looking up she can only see a dark blue sky. A shiver runs down her spine. She feels cold and wraps her arms around herself in a tight embrace. She should have worn something warmer than a nightgown. Hopefully this won't harm the baby.

It is so dark she wonders where the moon has gone. Still the voice is singing and the violin ripping the silence of the night.

"Where are the stars?" she asks out loud. There is nothing but the road and the night and the starless sky. "I want to see the stars."

"Why?"

She turns towards the person who has just spoken and blinks. "What are you doing here?"

"This is the road I walk," Sherlock replies.

"Oh. But aren't you playing the violin in the flat?"

His only answer is a secretive smile. He starts walking and Mary falls into step behind him. "John is sleeping," he says eventually. She nods.

"There's no light here. I wish we could see the stars."

"Why?"

Mary stops in her track, surprised. "Why? Well... Because I care, I suppose."

"Do you?" Sherlock replies distractedly. He isn't listening.

_Řekni mu, stříbrný mĕsíčku,_

_Mé že jej objímá rámě..._

"Who is singing?" Mary asks him.

This time it's his turn to stop and look at her with surprise. "Isn't it you?" She shakes her head. "Well. I don't know, then."

"You don't?" She cannot quite believe her ears. Sherlock Holmes, not knowing something and admitting it aloud?

They walk in silence for a while. His steps are quick, as if he knew where he was going and was in a hurry.

"Why do you walk this road?" she inquires.

"Because it leads home," he replies simply.

"Home?" she echoes, in a daze. She looks around them. "Is this home?"

"This? No," Sherlock says with a frown and some impatience in his voice.

"What are you thinking about?" Mary asks.

"We need to arrive before he wakes up."

"Really?"

"Yes. Hurry."

"But I'm pregnant!"

"Well then you should be running twice as fast, shouldn't you?"

"I should?" Mary says, bewildered. She looks down at her belly. "I'm cold," she declares as if she were merely commenting on the weather and not her condition.

"Here," Sherlock says briskly, handing her his coat. "But hurry up, would you?" His tone is rather sharp but Mary takes the coat gratefully.

"There's still blood on it," she notes with a grimace.

"Didn't have time to clean it. There's no time. Hurry up!"

"Fine, fine!"

_Aby si alespoň chviličku,_

_Vzpomenul ve snĕní na mne..._

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Why is there no moon?"

"Not relevant."

"And the stars?"

"Oh, what is it with you and the stars?!"

"They're pretty!"

"That's stupid," Sherlock grumbles. Mary scowls at him. "Just play with your teddy bears and leave the stars alone."

"I want to see the stars," Mary says stubbornly. "And I'll find them by myself if you don't want to help!"

She sticks her tongue at him and runs off the road into the fields, into the darkness.

"Wait!" she hears behind her, but pays it no heed. She runs on and on and realizes with a pang of guilt that she is still wearing his coat. She should have given it back before fleeing. What if he's cold? What if he _dies_ from the cold? She shivers.

"Sherlock?" she calls. Only the violin and the voice answer, ever present. Then suddenly something vibrating in her pocket makes her jump. Her phone. "Yes?" she says cautiously as she picks up.

"Where are you, you idiot?!"

"Oh, Sherlock! I have your coat."

"Come back right now!"

"I'll give it back later. Did you get home safely?"

"Where are you?"

"I don't know. Is John still sleeping."

"Yes."

Mary smiles.

"Keep an eye on him, won't you?"

"You–"

"Who do you think he is dreaming about?" she asks quietly into the phone. On the other end, Sherlock does not answer. "You, or me?" Mary goes on.

"Just come back. You're being annoying. I can't stay all night. I'm busy."

"Right. Well, I'll just climb up the ladder to the stars and come back, all right?"

"You're an idiot."

"And you're repeating yourself. Just keep vigil. I'll give your coat back."

She hangs up and turns to the ladder that's appeared while she was on the phone with Sherlock. The violin has stopped, but the voice is still singing. And now Mary can hear the rustling of the sea. She walks towards the ladder – green, why is it green? Something about a case... a green ladder? – and feels the sand under the soles of her bare feet.

"Mary?"

She stops dead in her track and looks at the sea. The moon has risen above it. John is standing on the beach, his laptop under his arm.

"John!"

He comes to her and she kisses him on the cheek. "What are you doing here?" she asks happily.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"I wanted to see the stars!" she tells him excitedly, pointing at the ladder.

"The stars?" he repeats, disconcerted. "But I've brought you flowers, look!" He hands her a bunch of daffodils.

"Oh, thank you John! I'll take them with me."

"I'm coming with you."

She shakes her head. "I'd rather you didn't. You've got to go home."

"But–"

"He's waiting for you, you see. Watching over you. He said he wouldn't stay all night."

"Mary–"

"Shh, listen!"

_Zasvět' mu do daleka, zasvět' mu,_

_Řekni mu, řekni, kdo tu naň čeká..._

"It's that depressing song again," John remarks, disapproval clear in his voice.

"It's not depressing. You know, John, the keyword... It was 'caring'. Caring. Isn't it beautiful?"

John looks lost and does not answer. Mary smiles. "You look tired, John. You should go back to bed. Here."

She takes off Sherlock's coat and gives it to her husband. "Give it to him for me, won't you?"

"But you'll be cold."

"It's not cold up there," she counters. Then she turns to the ladder and starts to climb.

"Mary! Wait!" she hears John call behind her. But she keeps climbing. She feels light, so light, lighter than she has in months. She checks her belly but it is still as big as ever. Her face breaks into a smile. Soon she can see nothing below but the ladder disappearing into the night. But above... above, there is the light. The voice has become softer, and sings more quietly. Mary recognizes the end of the song.

_O mněli duše lidská sní,_

_At' se tou vzpomínkou vzbudíl, _

"This is it, then," she says with wonder. She is getting quite dizzy. "The end." She looks at the stars around her and smiles.

_Mĕsíčku, nezhasni, nezhasni_

"It's beautiful," she murmurs. Then she lets go of the ladder and falls, eyes closed.

_Mĕsíčku, nezhasni, nezhasni!_

With a bang she finds herself back in the living-room on the hard boards. It is cold. Her back hurts. She looks around but sees no trace of John, or of Sherlock for that matter. The flat is empty. She's all alone. In her hand is still the bunch of daffodils. On the mantelpiece, the skull is grinning down at her.

"John..."

Her eyes snap open. It takes a few seconds for her to come to her senses and understand that she has been dreaming. She's lying in bed, in Sherlock's room; something warm in her hand makes her turn her head and she sees John, sitting in an armchair by her bedside, asleep. And holding her hand.

Mary's eyes widen. "John?" she calls. She gives his hand a squeeze.

"Mm?" comes the sleepy reply.

"John, what are you doing here?" she asks softly, pulling his hand. John finally opens his eyes.

"You were having nightmares. You called my name. And... Sherlock's."

"I did?"

He nods.

"But... why are you in an armchair?"

John grins drowsily. "You were sprawled all over the bed. There was no room for me."

Mary groans and pulls him towards her on the bed.

"Idiot. You must be cold."

"M'fine."

"Come here."

"I _am_ here."

"Well come closer!"

He chuckles. She lets go of his hand and snuggles up against his chest instead, as if he were a protective older brother. That's how she tries to think of it anyway. Gently, he strokes her hair and murmurs, already half-asleep:

"I'm sorry you have nightmares about Sherlock."

Mary plays with one of the buttons of his pyjamas. "It wasn't a nightmare."

"I'm sorry," John repeats. Mary smirks. He really is cute when he is sleepy.

"Thank you, John," she murmurs. "Thank you."

She waits until his breathing is regular and she is sure he is in deep slumber to slip away from his embrace and put a pillow in his arms instead. Then she lies back on the mattress, careful to let John have his half of the bed, and goes back to sleep, a smile on her face.

* * *

><p><em>But it can be won<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	40. Ab absurdo

**A/N: **Before we go on with Chapter XXXVIII, I would like to give my special thanks to all reviewers, but also all of you readers in general. I just realized that this story has become longer than 200K words, and with this realization came the awareness that not only have I spent more than a year struggling with it, but that all of you who read this have also gone through those 200K words. I highly doubt that people who began to read me a year ago are still with me now; but you have still read all previous chapters, and only now do I realize what a feat it truly is. When I look at the first chapters of this story, I am ashamed of how bad they are; and in one year I will no doubt be just as ashamed of the chapters I am currently posting. This is a very long fic and I a very young author. It is my first fanfiction story and I decided to make it a goal to write a good song fic when everyone was complaining about how boring song fics were, and a character study with a focus on bereavement, centred on the years of Sherlock's absence, when what every fan wanted from a post-Reichenbach story was the reunion of John and Sherlock. It's as if I did everything I could to deter readers, really! So thank you for giving this story a chance. I hope that by the end of it, you will feel that it was worth reading.

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

_**Ab absurdo:**_ "_from absurdity"; used of an argument that an assertion is false because of its absurdity _

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

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* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XXXIX: Ab absurdo<strong>

_Snowfall, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I want a snowfall kind of love<br>The kind of love that quiets the world_

* * *

><p>The world was silent tonight, as if the snow had numbed every nocturnal animal. Sebastian stood in the middle of the white cold clearing, a cigarette in his hand. The orange of its burning end contrasted sharply with the colours around him, the white of the snow, the black of the wood and of the lonely raven standing still on the heap of rocks. Sebastian grinned at him. He dragged one last time on his cigarette, watching the white blue smoke. Then he bent down and put it out in the snow.<p>

His target was standing mere meters from him, motionless and quiet. The night was clear and the moon light allowed him to see the details of the figure distinctly. Not that it mattered. He took out his gun.

_Will the crow cry?_ he mused distractedly.

The snowflakes falling were scarce enough but gave the night a silvery glow, like glistening ashes falling from the sky. Snow was softer than rain, less passionate. But you could get drenched in it nonetheless, and some found it more oppressive. Unnaturally quiet, as if it should have been more violent, or not been at all.

Sebastian raised the gun and pointed it at the soon-to-be-corpse. A firearm was a strange thing. Moran would have liked to talk with John about it, but he wasn't supposed to know he had shot the old cabbie. With one hand gripping the gun high on the back strap, the other pressed firmly against the exposed portion of the grip not covered by the first hand, with the index finger pressed hard underneath the trigger guard, how could it be that you actually held the life of a person in your hands? It was ridiculously easy. Firing a gun did not even require the skills of a sniper. Anyone could do it. By merely applying pressure to the trigger, you could take the life of the person in front of you. Sebastian had always thought it was a bit like magic. In better.

The moment when you slowly squeezed the trigger to the point where you start feeling resistance was what Moran enjoyed the most. As he presently took the slack out of the trigger, he felt himself get closer to the instant of utmost power, the limit between life and death: he hovered over it, marvelled at how little resistance the trigger put up when a human life was at stake. Shooting a man was like shooting a bird; but easier still. Sebastian smirked. He remembered a conversation he'd had with Jim about shooting.

"It's such a pedestrian way to get off, really," the consulting criminal had teased. "It's just like sex."

"Yeah. Just like sex. Minus its effect."

"It's the same effects!"

"No baby ever came out of a bullet I shot."

Jim had burst out laughing. "Don't be stupid, that's just a side effect."

"...Right. What are the effects of both sex and shooting, then?"

Moriarty had given him one of his manic grins. But Sebastian liked them. He always saw the edge of irony and the glint of sheer genius in it. Which didn't mean Jim wasn't mad.

"A shot, then a cry," he'd said in jest.

"Idiot. That's not even possible."

"What?"

"A shot, then a cry? When you shoot someone, it's usually the other way around."

Moriarty had laughed again.

Sebastian focused on his target and reaffirmed his grip on the gun. It was a cold, silent night. He glanced at the raven and smirked. Jim was never wrong. Tonight it would not be the other way around.

He pulled the trigger.

A shot. A cry.

* * *

><p><em>I want a snowfall kind of love<em>

* * *

><p>Sebastian Moran liked nothing more than having a brilliant man as prey. Once he'd got used to the job, he even started to select his clients according to the person they wanted him to target. Sebastian liked to know the whole background, just so his pleasure would be more acute: he enjoyed knowing exactly who his victims were, how smart and important they were, before he shot them dead. It gave him an addictive sense of power, to hold the life of geniuses in his hand, and to know, to <em>know<em> that they couldn't do a thing about it – and, sometimes, weren't even aware of it. This was even more thrilling than war. The ex-colonel did not miss it in the least. He appreciated his newly acquired freedom.

When he had been employed to kill Jim Moriarty, he'd known he would be taking great risks. The man was most definitely famous in the underworld, though Sebastian had never met him personally. But the one who'd commissioned the sniper had; he said he _owed_ Jim Moriarty. Sebastian had thought his commissioning a sniper a fine way to repay whatever debt he had, but had made no comment. The client knew Jim Moriarty, knew what he looked like and even where he was most likely to be found. That was all Sebastian needed to know.

Still, the sniper had been forced to hunt for his target. It had only made the whole chase and catching more thrilling. Never had Sebastian been so excited to see the moment he would hold somebody's life in his palm.

He hadn't expected it to turn out so perfectly and delightfully wrong.

"Hello, there," said the man in the Westwood suit walking casually up to him on the rooftop.

"Oh."

"Yes. _Oh." _Moriarty grinned broadly.

"I was supposed to shoot you."

"Indeed. I'm afraid you quite remarkably failed here, Seb."

Moran didn't blink at the nickname, as if it were perfectly natural for a complete stranger he was hired to eliminate to be familiar with his identity. He looked down to the street and watched the silhouette he'd been aiming at.

"Oh, him? It's just a fake. You can shoot him if you want. But he's not _me_."

For a second the sniper locked eyes with the consulting criminal and something seemed to pass between them, some electric current of recognition. But soon Sebastian broke the intensity of the instant. He shrugged with indifference.

"Oh well." Lighting up a cigarette, he started smoking as if he hadn't been about to kill someone, and as if now _he_ weren't very likely to be killed. He turned to Jim and offered detachedly:

"Would you like one?"

The other's grin became cartoon-like, and his eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Ooh, I'm liking you," he announced in his sing-song voice. Sebastian smirked as he dragged on his cigarette, inhaling deeply.

"Aw, how sweet. I'm sure you say that to all your victims."

Jim's eyes widened in histrionic bewilderment and Sebastian repressed the urge to roll his eyes at the man's theatrics; yet there was tinge of genuine surprise in it.

"Victims? I don't have victims. Only clients – like you."

The sniper smiled crookedly behind the cloud of smoke he had just blown.

"Not quite the same job, though," he commented smoothly.

"Obviously."

Moriarty began to pace around him, as if circling a prey. _Quite a reversal_, Sebastian mused. But he noticed his gait was nonchalant.

"You use your brain. I use my eyes," Moran went on.

Moriarty pouted dramatically.

"I use my eyes too!" he whined. Then in a lower, almost playful voice, laced with the subtlest threat and a tinge of cruelty: "I spotted you after all."

Not impressed by the tone in the least, Sebastian retorted indolently:

"No you didn't. You knew where I was going to be. You _thought_ – you did not see."

Jim chortled with something akin to mirth, in a very twisted way.

"You're a funny one, Seb!" he exclaimed. "Before thinking, one needs to observe."

"Exactly," Moran concurred. "You observe to think. You never watch just to see."

Something indefinable flashed in Moriarty's eyes, but soon the expression was gone and his face split into a grin.

"Mmm, daring. I like that."

Sebastian smiled back, unperturbed. He was, in fact, enjoying himself quite a lot.

"You're going to kill me anyway. I might as well have some fun."

Moriarty smirked knowingly.

"Who said anything about killing you?"

"If you don't, _I _am going to kill _you."_

The consulting criminal burst out laughing at the words, and Moran could tell it wasn't only for the show.

"Oh, Seb, you're funny, you're very funny." He ran a hand in his hair and suddenly turned to the sniper, adding excitedly: "What if I hired you to off your current client? What would you say?"

"I'd say that it wouldn't be very professional. And I'm a pro, _Jim." _

Moran relished the knowing smirk Moriarty gave him, as if they'd known each other their whole life.

"Aw, come on, you're dying to," he insisted.

"What makes you say that?"

Moriarty's smug, regal look was priceless. Sebastian was so glad he'd accepted the job.

"Because you love geniuses, and you love madmen." Jim turned on himself and spread his arms ecstatically. "And I just happen to be both!"

Moran had to repress a chuckle. He blew some smoke instead, before replying off-handedly:

"Ummm... Nope. Sorry, not interested."

Moriarty just grinned, as if sure of his victory.

"Oh well. I'll let you think about it, then."

He turned to leave, and Seb watched him, nonplussed. He stood, drew a gun, and pointed it at the consulting criminal's back. Jim stopped dead in his track and looked behind his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You won't shoot, dear. And you'll come to me in the end."

Turning back, he walked to the door casually. Moran's eyes turned to slits, and his grip tightened on his weapon. But he did not shoot.

"See you soon, Seb!" Jim let out, waving his hand without looking back at him, his tone confident and mocking. The tone of a king.

Sebastian never shot.

* * *

><p><em>'Cause I'm a snowfall kind of girl<em>

* * *

><p>Eliska Šárka liked nothing more than having a brilliant man at her feet.<p>

At age 18, she married Czech ambassador in Bangkok Branislav Janecek. He was 50. She had known him since she was 12.

Branislav was not a handsome man. As a friend of Eliska's father, however, he had the undeniable advantage of being both powerful and wealthy; and as a _close_ friend of her father's, Eliska knew he was more powerful and wealthier than he let on. She decided she would marry him when she was 16. Two years later she succeeded, and seeing that her plans seemed to go so well, she took another decision: at age 18, newlywed Eliska Janecek decided that her husband would know the tragic fate of Emperor Claudius in a matter of three to five years. The fact that she learned during her honeymoon in Rome that Branislav suffered from arrhythmia had naturally contributed to her thinking of this lovely ending.

Her second husband was a colonel working for the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye. She had met him when Branislav was still alive and had been appointed as ambassador in Moscow. She married him when she was 24. He tragically died in service a year later; this time round, Eliska had no hand in it. It seemed that working for the GRU had the potential – and most regrettable – effect of shortening one's life expectancy.

Thereafter Eliska – whose official surname now was Svoboda – had many men. It wasn't so much that she was _interested_; but she was addicted. She shared the same addiction as her father, which was the same as that of her two husbands: Eliska was deeply, intrinsically, irretrievably addicted to power. And refinement. And luxury. It all came together; and ultimately it all came from the hands of men. Hence her loving nothing more than having them dance in the palm of her hand.

The first time she met Jim Moriarty, Eliska understood she had never been in love. The second time, she realized she had never even _desired_ anyone.

She first met him at the National Opera and Ballet Theatre in Odessa. It was summer and the evening was warm. Unperturbed by the clammy weather, Eliska was wearing a crimson sheath dress, her ethereal, aristocratic beauty enhanced by the contrast of her pure white skin with the fabric of her gown and the redness of her lips. She was supposed to meet a man there, a "lover", but he had never come; instead, it was Jim Moriarty she had found sitting next to her as they watched Swan Lake. She had never quite forgotten.

Jim had given her a red rose to apologize for the other man's absence, making it clear that he was in no state to honour his rendezvous – or any other in this life. Surprisingly, Eliska had been more charmed than frightened and had taken the rose with unconcealed pleasure. She had thought this stranger must have wanted something of her, or he wouldn't have come; and the idea that a man who seemed to know everything about her and who spoke of her lover's murder with the graceful nonchalance of kings – absolute and unreachable – needed her assistance had sent down her spine a shiver of exquisite anticipation.

But instead he had told her that it was she who would need him eventually.

"I do not see how you could be of any use to me, Mr. Moriarty," she had said with a thin smile.

"Oh I know you can take care of many tasks yourself," he had chimed back. "But you _will_ need me."

Eliska had considered this a moment. Not truly, of course, but she had paused and made sure to take an absent air before replying in a polite but definite tone:

"Mr. Moriarty, you seem to be a dangerous man. I do not wish to owe you anything."

His smile alone had been enough to make her doubt her words the moment they had been uttered.

"Well," he had said casually, "we shall see about that."

She had lasted a week.

Within a month, Jim Moriarty had taken in her life the place of Mephistopheles in Doctor Faustus': except that Jim was not her slave, and would not wait until the afterlife to get his price.

Soon the roles were reversed. She was more indebted than she could ever pay back. She had fallen in love.

She tried to get out of it at first by being more cruel and vicious than she'd been to any other man: but Jim Moriarty was not a man. He was much more. He was beyond her reach; beyond the reach of anyone among those he called the _IOU_ people, those who were indebted to him in a non-negotiable way. Those who had accepted a contract with the devil. Power. Power above anything else. In this respect, Eliska was special. She shared this visceral craving for power; she shared the characteristics they all had, personal networks, the knowledge of dark secrets for blackmail, money beyond necessity, an education; manners, wit, cruelty; shrewdness and a lack of scruple; a familiarity with the ways of the world. But deep within her another passion had corrupted the purity of her thirst for power. It had been laced with an even more corrosive and malignant poison: another kind of desire. Sometimes she thought she could not live as long as Jim Moriarty was alive; sometimes she felt she would die the moment that he did. Her love was like nothing she had ever read about, it was brutal and deathly and so very much akin to hatred; a feral, primordial loathing that had become her only drive. He could ask anything of her, and she would find a secret joy in his manipulating her, and her letting him, knowingly.

"What if I refuse?" she asked once. The iridium nib of the Parker Duofold he was writing with had stopped running on the paper instantly. He had glanced at her, then resumed his letter with a smile.

"Don't be silly, Liska. We both know you won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you'd be bored, dear. You enjoy it too much."

"I am proud."

"Oh, yes. You are, aren't you? But you're bored, too." His eyes caught hers and he did not let them go. His face broke into a grin. "You can't stop now, can you? Not now that you've had a taste of it. It's too much fun! You won't deny it." He had folded the letter and had sealed it as if it were of any importance at all; Eliska knew it wasn't, knew he was only putting on a show. And she'd watched, mesmerized.

"You won't deny it because you love it, _my dear_. You love this!" he said as he was putting away the letter. "You love power. You love plotting and treason; you love intrigues and sophisticated crimes. You love the thrill." He had readjusted his suit, walked to the door. Stopped. "And..." Eliska had watched the corners of his mouth twisting into a tantalizing smirk, watched with the same ecstatic fascination with which she would have watched the glint of the guillotine above her. "...you love _me."_

Eliska never denied it.

* * *

><p><em>I want a snowfall kind of love<br>That lights up the sky from below_

* * *

><p>Jim Moriarty never had to wait long for anything. Or for anyone. He had personally picked Sebastian Moran to be his pet; his own John Watson, but better (a <em>colonel,<em> please, not just a _captain)._ His live-in admirer.

"I want my own room," was the first thing Sebastian told him when they met again.

Moriarty faked disbelief.

"What makes you think we'll even live together?"

His tone was implying that such a thought was preposterous. But Moran did not become flustered in the least. He even held back a sigh of annoyance at the criminal's dramatics.

"Because you're obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. And _he_ lives with the ex-soldier he picked – and who's got his own room, by the way. You obviously hired me to play flatmates."

"And more if we hit it off," Jim confirmed with a wink, clearly finding the man highly entertaining. "I was so right to choose you! But then again, I'm never wrong."

Sebastian stared, and wondered what he had got himself into.

It turned out living with Jim Moriarty wasn't so bad. Moran never had so much work, but then that was what he lived for, and so he would never complain.

He'd thought at first that Jim would be the type to eat only in high class restaurants and bring all his clothes to the dry cleaner's. But he wasn't. He was fine with frozen food and ready-made, and didn't always wear Westwood. Sometimes he disappeared for days on end, and Sebastian knew he probably owned several flats and different places, most likely in various countries. He was even surprised he'd risk living in the same place for long, and with a flatmate to boot. But soon he realized how unreachable Moriarty truly was. He'd known from the start that Sebastian's client – the one who'd hired him to kill the criminal mastermind – would target him. He'd only let it happen because he wanted to meet the sniper. Said client had been killed the very same day; he had served his purpose.

"You see, Seb, only those who owe me everything know me personally. Powerful people, if there are any – like your client." He smirked. "I call them the IOU people. _Incredibly overweening and useless_. Well, they're not so useless. If they were, I wouldn't bother with them, even if it's cute to see them yapping and begging for more: _Daddy, please get rid of that ambassador for me, so I can start a war. Daddy, won't you put me in contact with the Chinese Mafia? _Daddy here, Daddy there..."

Sebastian stared for a second.

"… Right. Just so we're clear: I am not calling you 'Daddy'. Or dad. Or anything of the sort."

Jim burst out laughing.

"Ooh, the attitude! You're not cute at all, Seb."

"Pick a doctor, next time. Not a sniper." _Idiot_, said the lackadaisical tone.

"Aw, don't be jealous. Let's look on the bright side of things: you're not as devoted, but you're much smarter than him."

Moran made no comment.

* * *

><p><em>I want a snowfall kind of love<br>That brings people to their window_

* * *

><p>A shot ripped the air and the man holding the gun fell dead on the riverbank. Moriarty looked up to the bridge and grinned widely at the invisible silhouette he knew was standing there.<p>

Jim had always liked symmetry. He liked things to be harmonious, as it participated in the brilliance of his schemes. Consequently, it did not seem crazy at all to him to put his life on the line just so Sebastian would burst on him and save him by shooting the source of danger.

He hadn't set it in the same place John Watson had shot the old cabbie, though; he'd thought the bank of the Thames at night, close to the murky water, would be a more fitting environment for the show. Naturally, he'd calculated everything so dear Seb would find out in time exactly where he was, and what was going on.

As he joined his sniper, Jim did nothing to hide how he revelled in the annoyance that filled his traits. _Seb is so listless! _he'd say. Moran knew Jim loved it when he could get him to show some emotions on what he called "that unruffled face" of his.

"You did this just so I could mirror John Watson?" he asked point-blank, his tone discrediting.

"Oh, so you've read the blog too!"

"Don't be stupid. He didn't say he killed a man on his blog, Jim."

"Ha ha, naturally! But wasn't it obvious?"

"Of course it was. That man _is_ obvious."

Jim pouted.

"But isn't it adorable?"

"You're an idiot," Sebastian dead-panned, referring to the jeopardizing situation he'd put himself into on purpose. Then, with a clouded brow, and in a colder voice, he added:

"Don't reproduce the Pool so we can mirror it."

The consulting criminal and the sniper looked each other in the eye under the grim streetlight. Sebastian went on:

"I'm not John Watson. I won't offer my life to save yours."

* * *

><p><em>Won't you bury me in your quiet love<em>

* * *

><p>"I'd give my life to save yours," Eliska blurted.<p>

She hated it. She never blurted. But the way Jim had got closer to that sniper of his, the way he _lived_ with him... She resented it. She had known Jim for much longer than Moran had known him. They had history and their bond was deeply rooted in the most fundamental passions of the human soul; surely that accounted for something. She despised the sniper for being so silly as to try to _shoot_ Jim, hated him for getting into the picture. All the more so as his detachment was not feigned, his apathy, genuine. It struck her when she first met him: the way he took everything that came his way with plebeian simplicity and easygoing amusement. There was something inhuman in him, something that reminded Eliska of cows watching idly trains go by, stupidly, or even the grass eaten by the cows. Yet he was a man. A man looking at everything around him like the cows looked at the trains or the cat at the strangers down in the street out the window – unconcerned. His blatant disinterest insulted her. She saw his unrefined nonchalance towards Jim as sacrilege, his offhand and jaded mordancy as blaspheme. She hated how laid back he was around Jim, how he took it all for granted. She hated him.

What she loathed the most, though, was the way Jim was playing with her. He did not treat her like just any of the IOU people. He did not show as much contempt towards her. Or rather he showed it in and entirely different, more elaborate manner. She knew he had told no one about Sebastian Moran. She knew he was trying to make her feel special and favoured, but also sick with jealousy. He complained about Moran's indifference and his eyes dared her to tell him how better she would have been to share a flat with; to share a life. She never did. But when he recounted his little discussion with 'Seb', the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She uttered them as if they were poisoned. They burned her tongue and she told them with the ferocity of one declaring war or a death threat. Moriarty laughed.

"I know you would, dear. That's why you're so precious to me."

Eliska did not make any comment on the ambiguity of the compliment.

It was only much later, when it was too late, that she realized Sebastian Moran was not the real danger. He was not a rival, _the_ rival, but a mere shadow of it; a faded copy, a toy for Jim to occupy himself when he could not play with the real thing. Or so she hoped. Her envy was deepened and brought to an almost unbearable level when she learned that Moran, regardless of him being nothing, had known everything about what truly mattered for Jim, when she hadn't; Moran had known about Sherlock Holmes.

It all resulted from her investigating why Jim had chosen London of all cities to share a flat with Sebastian. She knew Jim had told her its location with a purpose in mind; when she discovered the existence of Sherlock Holmes, when Jim came to her once bouncing with excitement and asking her to write _a note_ to the abhorred consulting detective, she knew she had fallen for his trick yet again.

"What is so interesting about him?" she asked him once. The moment she had said it she knew she had made a mistake. The flash of scorn in Moriarty's eyes, even though it only lasted an instant, cut her more deeply than any of his remarks until then. His subsequent smile had made her nauseous.

"You wouldn't understand," he said as if he were talking about a trifling matter, "he's not important." The blatant lie only made her fury more acute. She was certain then that she would know no peace until she had utterly destroyed the consulting detective. And she knew she couldn't. She knew Moriarty would kill her if she did, or worse; he would find a way, find a torture she could not even imagine, the perfect retribution for her crime, something unfathomable before it was made real, like the punishment inflicted upon Prometheus for having stolen the fire of the gods. But that was not the issue. That was not too high a price if it meant she could have an everlasting impact on Jim's life: if she could take away the one thing that excited him the most, the one thing that seemed to bestow some superior meaning on his existence. No, the problem was what he told her next, stroking her hair, whispering in her ear.

"Liska, Liska... You know how I trust you. I have a better fate for you than that. I have such high hopes for you... You are the only woman in my life, so don't be stupid. Don't ask for more."

The only woman in his life. As if that held any significance. Her gaze drifted to the vase where she had put the one red rose he had brought her today. One and only one magnificent crimson rose, like he often did.

"Blood will have to be shed," she said lowly, her voice trembling. He nodded.

"You shall have blood, Liska. Loads of it. I will give you an entire kingdom to kill if you wish."

She broke away from him and turned to see his face. "You have no idea what I wish for."

"Yes I do," he said with his sing-song voice. Then his expression became grave again. "You won't deny me this, Liska."

"Why did you tell me about it?" she inquired, refusing to say: _about_ _him_. Moriarty smiled, his boyish demeanour contrasting sharply with the ruthlessness of his words.

"Because I like to watch you burn."

* * *

><p><em>Oh bury me in your quiet love<em>

* * *

><p>"Say, why did you pick me?" Moran suddenly asked one night while Jim was playing with his hair. Sebastian found it annoying. He'd told him to stop because he found the gesture patronizing – revoltingly fatherly – but Jim had grinned and said he found his dark locks funny and that it'd be a pity not to play with them. Moran had retorted it was only because Jim's hair was dull and unpleasant to the touch, and that he should just get himself a wig to pet, or scalp Sherlock. Moriarty had laughed – a lot. But he hadn't dropped the habit in the least.<p>

"Why the question, out of the blue?" Jim asked in an amused voice.

"What you wanted was your own personal John Watson. I have nothing in common with him."

"Don't lie, Seb. We both know you admire me."

He grinned, and Sebastian couldn't help but think he really looked like the Joker in Batman when he did that. Or the Cheshire Cat. He arched an eyebrow, more contemptuous than truly puzzled.

"We do?"

"Of course. You're fascinated with me."

"Fascination and admiration aren't the same thing," Seb remarked. "Plus, John Watson is sickeningly devoted to Sherlock. He adores him."

Moriarty pouted and pulled capriciously on the black locks, like a sulking child.

"And you don't adore me?"

Seb gave him that stare he knew Moriarty found most amusing, for it conveyed quite effectively his blasé mindset, that wouldn't even bother with a sigh.

"I'm not even going to answer that," the sniper said.

"But you just did," Jim pointed out, gloating.

"You're such a child."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"But you know what they say: we should all retain the innocence of children."

"Too bad," Sebastian mused. "You only retained the brattiness."

* * *

><p><em>Bury me in your quiet love<em>

* * *

><p>It was pouring outside when Moran finally found the disused warehouse Moriarty was surely in. It was insane to think that him, of all people, had been caught by some stupid – but very dangerous – Mafioso. In fact, Moran wondered if this wasn't some plan to test him again: a plan to test his loyalty, and force him to choose between his own life and Jim's. But there was always a lingering doubt... What if it wasn't bogus? And even if it was, perhaps Jim was so sure of his reaction that he hadn't devised any plan B.<p>

And so Sebastian burst in on a lovely meeting of half a dozen men with guns, which all pointed at him as he slammed open the main door and walked in, drenched. Moriarty was sitting, tied on a chair in the middle of the group. The sniper groaned. _Now I know you've planned all this. It is so utterly clichéd..._

"Chi sei?" barked one of the men.

Seb stared dispassionately. "Sorry, I don't speak Italian."

"Who are you?" repeated another one, aiming at him threateningly. Sebastian smiled.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi."

They all looked at each other, completely lost.

"What are you saying? This man here is Jim Moriarty!"

"Oh, him? It's just a fake. You can shoot him if you want, but he's not _me_."

Even from this distance, he could see Jim's delighted smirk, and he had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. One of the men came up to him, and searched him for any weapon; he did not find any. _Idiot_, Seb thought. However, he found his Craven A.

"You've got nice cigarettes," the man taunted as he took the packet from him and pocketed it.

All of a sudden Sebastian hit the man on the groin, disarmed him by twisting his arm around and breaking his wrist, and used him as a shield as all the others started shooting at him. Annoyed with the man's screams as his back was riddled with bullets, he shot him in the head and expertly put a bullet in every other Mafioso's brain (although he seriously wondered whether they had any). One of their bullets still grazed his shoulder, and he winced in pain as he shot the last man, who was trying to run away. The warehouse fell deadly silent.

Moran walked up to Jim, glowering.

"I think I'm just going to leave you there."

"Aw, come on," Moriarty whined, seesawing childishly on his chair, "Don't say that when you've done some classy suicide attack just to save me." He beamed.

Sebastian just glared, then turned away from Jim and went back to the body of the man who'd served as a shield.

"You're wrong. That guy just pissed me off. He took my cigarettes."

He took the packet back from the corpse's pocket and frowned when he saw they were drenched in his blood. He made a disgusted moue.

"You owe me a packet. Or two. Or even a hundred."

"Why not the whole store, while we're at it?" Jim offered sarcastically.

"Why not?" Seb retorted coldly, quite serious.

"Fine. You're a kept man anyway, so what's a few more cigarette packets..."

Moran looked at him curiously, something like wonder in his eyes.

"You're pretty tied up there, Jim. Don't you think you've been rather reckless?"

Slowly, he stepped closer to his 'flatmate', playing with the gun he was still holding in his right hand and ignoring the pain radiating from his left shoulder. He stopped and aimed the gun at Moriarty's head.

"It would be so disappointedly easy to shoot you now."

Jim smiled refinedly. "But you won't, my dear."

"Why not?"

"As you said. It would be _disappointing."_

Moran blinked, then shrugged and untied the insolent consulting criminal.

"Oh well," he commented phlegmatically.

Moriarty pouted. "You're no fun, Seb. Johnny boy is so much more passionate."

Sebastian smirked.

"To be fair, you're nowhere near as passionate as Sherlock either."

* * *

><p><em>And we will blow away<em>

* * *

><p>"You haven't been coming home a lot, lately. I was wondering–"<p>

"If I had a mistress?" Jim cut in, rolling on the bed and sending Seb a taunting smile.

"... If you'd let yourself be kidnapped by the Iceman again."

"Big Brother? Nah. Nah, I'm done with him."

"But I thought you tried so hard to get his attention," Moran remarked as he served himself a glass of brandy. "Want some?"

"I'll just drink from your glass."

Sebastian rolled his eyes but came to sit on the bed next to the bossy git nonetheless.

"I did get his attention," Moriarty went on. "But you see, the Iceman's made of ice. He's boring. He doesn't want to play the game. That's why he's so alone, walled in his cold palace of aloofness. He's more intelligent than Sherly, in fact. But he's dull, so dull... except where his baby brother is concerned."

Moran frowned slightly as Jim drank some brandy.

"Then what did you lose your time for getting kidnapped and tortured? I know you're crazy, but–"

"Don't be stupid, Seb. Use your brain, for once."

Sebastian took his glass back dryly and fell quiet. Moriarty sighed.

"I made a deal with him. It was worth the trouble."

"A deal?"

Jim grinned. "Of some sort."

"Do I want to know?"

"Oh, you will."

He gazed in the distance, as if visualizing with pride what would soon be coming.

"I'm planning something grand, Seb. A hell... the perfect hell! One worthy of Sherlock."

Moran put his glass down and tilted his head pensively.

"Say, Jim. Do you hate him? Or do you love him?"

Moriarty blinked, then shook his head disappointedly.

"No, no... you keep asking stupid questions... always the wrong ones..."

Ignoring his whining, Sebastian pressed on:

"Will you kill him? Or John Watson?"

They locked eyes, and Moran felt himself drown in the incandescence and sheer madness of those darkened pupils. Moriarty's face cracked into a grin.

"What do you think?"

* * *

><p><em>Oh I want to walk through with you<br>And watch it all melt away_

* * *

><p>"I'm going to London tomorrow," he announced.<p>

Eliska furrowed her brow and lowered the volume of the song that was playing.

_...svĕtĕ bloudíš širokém, díváš se příbytky lidí, mĕsíčku postůj chvíli..._

"Why so soon?" she inquired.

_...kde je můj milý ?..._

He smiled crookedly. "I have some business to attend."

_...stříbrný mĕsíčku, mé že jej objímá rámě..._

Eliska frowned and took a sip of wine to delay her upcoming remark.

"What have you been playing at with little Holmes these past few months?"

_...chviličku, vzpomenul..._

"Ooh, so you read the papers."

_...na mne..._

"Don't be stupid, Jim. We all read the papers."

_...daleka..._

"Mmh. It's not common for you to say 'we' and to include yourself with all the IOU members."

_...řekni, kdo tu naň čeká..._

She glared, but did not take the bait and remained silent.

_...O mněli duše lidská sní, at' se tou..._

"This is too showy for you," she let out eventually. "I understand you wanted to advertise yourself with the simultaneous break-ins but–"

_...nezhasni..._

"No, no! You understand nothing sweetheart, so don't try."

_...mĕsíčku, nezhasni, nezhasni!_

She put down her glass and stood up sharply. "What, then?" she asked, starting to pace the room. She stopped the CD. "Is it really about _him_?"

"Us," Moriarty corrected with a grin. Then, as if it were necessary, he clarified: "Him and I."

She knew he was watching her closely, relishing any sign of acrimony and revulsion that would escape her. She kept her face in check, impassive. But she felt a tremor in her right hand, itching. She clutched the stereo system. Jim's smile broadened.

She knew and he knew and suddenly she felt a sense of serenity wash over her, a sense of transparency. She went to the window and looked outside. She welcomed her wrath with a studied placidity. Calm and incensed, she could feel her rage sharpening her features, increasing the tension in her muscles _just so._ She was burning with cold anger, beyond the line of distinction, when you can no longer tell if what you feel is scorching heat or a consuming iciness.

"Yes, that's it," Jim encouraged her as he poured himself some more wine. "That's how you're beautiful, Liska."

Her gaze wandered across the park outside. It was spring. Everywhere everything was coming back to life.

"Why do you want to see him again?"

"I want to destroy him."

Eliska did not bat an eyelid. In her chest loathing and jealousy were fighting, wrecking havoc.

"I like your dress today," Jim commented out of the blue. "That's what fits you best." Eliska felt her lips tighten then stretch into a bitter smile, before she broke into hysterical laughter. Moriarty simply kept drinking his wine.

"Not the shape, I presume?" Her voice was cutting, a blade meant to kill; it did not square with the banality of her words. "Not the shape, is it?" she repeated, her beautiful porcelain mask breaking. She felt shattered.

Moriarty stood up and looked at her from head to foot. She was wearing a silk satin Empire dress. It was a rich shade of green.

"No," he said. "Not the shape."

Her lips quivered. The next moment they were pressed against his, her hand clasping his shoulder, her nose rubbing against his. It was the latter contact that made her feel uncomfortable and step back. Jim's lips were red from the red of her lips. Their eyes met and she felt like a flame burning to her extinction against an immovable wall of ice. She was trembling with sheer passion and the acute knowledge that Jim felt nothing was like a guardrail: a safeguard to her sanity. Eliska took another step back, her eyes never leaving Moriarty's.

In this instant she was ready to kill him. She could feel the dagger that always accompanied her pressed against her calf. She knew it would take her only one second to take it, another to stab Jim to death. The image of the blood staining his bright white shirt flashed across her field of vision, echoed by the unnatural redness of his mouth stained by her lipstick. Moriarty waited calmly, letting her fantasize, knowing without the shadow of a doubt that she would not act upon it. In his eyes Eliska saw he was already elsewhere, in his own fantasies; and she suddenly felt like the wife in bed who realizes her husband inside her is picturing another face. She turned away.

"Go, then. Have your fun with the Virgin."

She could feel Jim's smile in her back. Because of who she was, because of who he was, she saw his destroying Sherlock Holmes for what it really was: an act of consumption and of possession. The fulfilment of a supreme and unbearable desire, so much beyond her realm.

"Oh, and Jim," she said before he left the room, without turning to him. "I'd like that kingdom you promised me, when you're back."

Jim's face split into a sardonic grin. She did not see it.

"Oh, you will, my fairest. You will."

This was the last time she saw him.

* * *

><p><em>I want a snowfall kind of love<br>The kind of love that keeps you in bed all day_

* * *

><p>It was on a rainy June night that Jim suddenly burst in on Sebastian sleeping and kissed him senseless.<p>

Actually, he rather woke him up senseless, and soon a gun was pressed to Jim's temple, before the disoriented sniper took in the situation and put his weapon down.

"What the hell?"

Moriarty sat back and gave a disgruntled pout.

"Nah. Nah, it doesn't work."

Sebastian sighed exasperatedly and fell back on his pillow. Jim lay next to him, but kept brooding.

"It's obsessive, you know," Moran commented as Moriarty started playing with his locks.

"Your hair?"

"Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Don't tell me you think they kiss."

"Of course not. But we're smarter, remember?"

They exchanged a knowing smirk. But a wistful smile made its way to Jim's face, and Sebastian knew it was serious.

"So... It's tomorrow, isn't it." He didn't even bother hiding the affirmative tone.

"Yup. Tomorrow... Well, today, in fact."

The sniper's eyes fell to his luminous watch. Three in the morning. Indeed...

"He texted you."

"Mm."

"Sunrise?"

"Mm. There's a staircase in front of Bart's. Perfect for shooting practice."

Sebastian got the message and remained silent.

"We're not the same," he said finally.

"Who?"

"Them, and us. Watson, and I. Sherlock... and you."

"Ha ha ha! What are you trying to say?"

Moran turned to his 'flatmate' and looked him in the eye.

"You can never have what Sherlock has. But we had something else."

"Had?" Moriarty repeated in mock surprise.

"You're going to shoot yourself, aren't you?"

Jim's face froze a second, and suddenly Moran realized the surprise hadn't been fake. Soon, however, the consulting criminal regained his composure and broke in a fit of giggles.

"I was so right to choose you, Seb, so right."

Abruptly, his expression turned grave, his pupils gleaming with mad determination.

"I am going to shoot myself."

Then more lightly: "So what do you say? Are you going to try and stop me?"

Seb shrugged, but groped for his cigarette packet on his bedside table, and lit one before answering:

"No. I knew this was going to happen sooner or later." He dragged on his cigarette, then added more softly: "That's why you came to me in the first place."

"Is it?" Moriarty asked with one of his characteristic grins.

Seb intensified his gaze.

"But you'll have to tell me clearly. What you want from me after you've died."

"Ooh. So you want me to tell you my plans?"

"Obviously. That's my business, since you're going to have me enact them for you."

Moriarty kept playing with Sebastian's hair nonchalantly.

"Of course. You'll know everything you need to know."

Moran smiled jadedly.

"Does that include the way you want to close the symmetry?"

"Whatever do you mean, Seb?" Jim inquired innocently... with his Cheshire Cat-like grin.

Sebastian dragged on his cigarette once more. The blue smoke he blew seemed white in the darkness of the room.

"You know," he said casually. "Whether you want Sherlock to die, so only the two 'pets' remain... Or whether you want only the 'good guys' to remain."

For a second, he thought he saw a flash of pride in the consulting criminal's eyes, and he felt his hand linger more gently on his scalp.

"Will your loyalty depend on my answer?" Jim asked playfully.

A pause. Sebastian blew some more smoke from his cigarette.

"You know it won't."

* * *

><p><em>Won't you bury me in your quiet love<em>

* * *

><p>Sebastian saw the staircase. He set everything in case he'd have to shoot John Watson after all, and almost wished it would happen. But that would mean Jim's plan had failed, and he couldn't possibly hope for such a thing.<p>

He did not hear the detonation, but knew the exact second Moriarty shot himself. He watched as Sherlock gave his last call to John, and wondered to what extent his tears were fake. _Take the binoculars. I bet you he'll cry._ Jim had been right, of course. _I'm never wrong._

And so Sebastian watched as Sherlock cried and trembled and hung up on a terrified John and jumped. He watched as the doctor was hit by a cyclist, and as the truck hid the detective's "corpse" from view.

_Just a quip, Seb. It'll be just a quip. Brilliant, isn't it?_

As he went down the stairs, Moran wondered if Jim had been talking about himself – his scheme, even his whole life, perhaps? – or Sherlock's death.

Either way, this wasn't the end. The game was still on, more than ever.

With or without him. But always for him.

_Jim Moriarty._

* * *

><p><em>Oh bury me in your quiet love<em>

* * *

><p>All he had left her was a letter. It was written with her favourite pen, the one that she always had with her, and she had no idea how he had managed to take it without her noticing. But then again, this was Jim Moriarty. Had been.<p>

It was his writing but not his words: he had merely copied the fairy tale, Snow White. There was no message. Only a map of England and a pair of emerald, oval-shaped earrings.

Eliska took them delicately and put them on in front of her mirror. Then she stepped back and looked at her reflection. Jim hadn't lied. He had given her the promised kingdom.

* * *

><p><em>Bury me in your quiet love<em>

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Svoboda, Mr. Kazimir is here."<p>

Eliska gave a regal frown. "Kazimir? Well, let him in."

"Sorry, it's only me!" Sebastian exclaimed as he walked in casually, jarring with the surrounding luxury. "But I brought you flowers. Well, _a_ flower specifically."

The moment he handed her the red rose her attitude changed radically. She stood still, her eyes fixed on the velvety crimson petals. The shadow of a smile flickered on her lips an instant, then vanished.

"That's very kind of you," she finally said.

She took the rose and put it down on her hairdresser.

"I was surprised at how easy I was let in," Seb commented, pacing the room and looking around as if he were in a museum. "Do you often receive men in your rooms at this hour of the night?"

"Yes."

He blinked at the simplicity of her answer, then broke into laughter. "Well, I'm sorry I'm not here for that."

"I hope you are _not_ sorry," she replied icily. But there was no venom in her voice. She was going through the top drawer of her dresser, obviously looking for something, and Seb could tell she was only half listening to him.

"I thought you would bring the Virgin," she said.

"Sherlock? Nah. Nah, he's too young for that!" Moran retorted with a boyish grin.

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Mimic him."

Her tone was murderous. Sebastian fell silent. After a little while, he let out a sigh.

"You're hopeless, you know that? _Liska_."

"Shut up!"

His eyes snapped back to her at the outburst. He had been admiring a painting of a Madone; the woman he now laid eyes upon was closer to the Gorgon. He couldn't help but smirk at the dissimilarity.

"Lovely painting you've got here."

She glared a few more daggers at him before resuming her search. Finally, she seemed to have found what she was looking for. She stared at the emerald earrings, apparently lost in thought.

"Shall we go out for a walk?"

"At this hour? And with this weather? It's snowing!"

Eliska smiled mockingly. "It's December, Mr. Moran. And we're in the Czech Republic. I don't live in the lowlands; it's been snowing for days, and the snow will stay at least another month; most likely two."

Sebastian shrugged.

"Well, I suppose December is snow time."

Eliska did not comment on the attempted pun on words. "Wait for me in the hall downstairs. I will join you once I have changed clothes."

Sebastian bowed slightly in acknowledgement and followed the butler out. He did not wait in the hall, but outside where he could smoke, and admire the vastness of the estate.

"Shall we go through the woods?" Eliska asked him once she had come down.

"You're the master of the ship," Moran replied obligingly.

They walked in silence for a while.

"Have you been following me?" Eliska inquired, her tone conversational.

"Master's orders!" Sebastian explained himself defensively. Eliska smiled caustically.

"Which one?"

"Aw, don't be rude. Sherlock told me to keep an eye on you. But he's not the reason I'm here."

"Of course not."

They entered the wood and Moran was surprised by how quiet it was.

"You've got quite the property here," he said.

"Indeed."

Sebastian scowled at her aloofness. Not an easy person to make conversation with. Then again...

"Did you have your fun killing all those women?"

She did not answer immediately. Through the foliage the light of the moon fell on her blond hair, and in the night it looked white, laced with silver threads. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, and under this light she looked already like a ghost... but for her lips. They were painted with the deepest shade of crimson, and in the semi-darkness they seemed made of ruby. Her features were finely and subtly sharpened by her make-up. All in all, she looked as if she were wearing a mask, but one that had merged into her skin and was now endowed with the infinity of expressions a human face can show.

"I didn't kill them with my own hands," she said softly. Moran wondered if her voice was tinged with regret.

"Well, you didn't need to, did you?"

She shook her head, her eyes shining. "No, but still, it was my kingdom. It was my kingdom to kill."

Sebastian glanced at her. Perhaps she was more psychotic than he'd thought.

"Right. But it was to disturb 'Kazimir' that you did it; Kazimir, 'the destroyer of peace'."

Eliska's brow clouded and Moran could tell her mood had suddenly darkened. She looked ready to kill someone. "Yes. It was a taunt. Against that stupid virgin. 'A child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood of the window frame'. Don't make me laugh."

"I really wasn't trying to."

She snorted. Then her hatred seemed to come back full force and she turned to Moran with blazing eyes.

"I want you to tell me."

"If you managed to turn all the IOU people against him? Nah, sorry, that didn't work at all."

"Not that," she said with annoyance.

"Oh, Mary Morstan then? John Watson?"

"I wished I'd had time to kill him."

Her voice was as hard and as cold as the ground under them.

"I see," Sebastian said. "So your question was: did we manage to destroy him?"

Her eyes were searching him, burning. Moran chuckled.

"Who knows?"

"You do! How can you not have killed him yet when he's the reason Jim... You... You must have been appointed to do something! To destroy him utterly! To finish him off! Because that's what he said, that's what Jim said when he left... He said he'd destroy him..."

Her voice broke. Moran watched her under the moonlight, and for the first time thought he understood, maybe, why Moriarty had wanted her to be part of IOU.

"Jim got what he wanted," he eventually said, taking his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting one. "As always."

"Did he? Why did he die? Why–"

"He wanted to, and you know it."

She fell silent.

"You were with him, weren't you?"

Sebastian nodded.

"You saw it, then?"

He blew some smoke and watched it disperse in the night. "No. All I saw was John Watson. He was my target. I saw Sherlock, too. Jim was with him alone when he died."

He turned to look at her. "But you know that already, don't you? Some IOU people were watching, worried about how things would turn for them, worried about his obsession with Sherlock. Jim knew he was under surveillance. He put on a show."

"I want to know the truth!"

"What truth?"

Moran looked at her. Her lips were quivering and she seemed on the verge of tears. But the fury in hers eyes was feral.

"Why did he die? Why _Sherlock?_" Now her tone was desperate. Sebastian averted his gaze, uninterested.

"You already know the answers," he retorted wearily.

She did not deny it.

"So what?" she said after a while. "What now?"

"Of Sherlock?"

"Who else? There's only ever been him," she spat. Sebastian couldn't repress a smile. "You find it funny? You were just a tool, too. A tool and a toy. He never gave a damn. You're no better than me, all you ever had was the pleasure to be played with."

"Ha ha ha! You don't get it, do you?" God, this woman was hopeless, really hopeless. Such an idiot.

"I got enough," she said in a faraway voice. Sebastian remained silent.

He found the cold invigorating, although the stillness of the wood and the absence of any noise created a rather strange and oneiric atmosphere.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Through the woods."

"Really?"

She glanced at him.

"There's a charming clearing not very far. Let's turn left here."

Sebastian followed. It was Eliska who broke the silence again.

"Will you kill him?"

"Who?"

She glowered.

"Sherlock?" he asked. "No, why would I kill him? Jim didn't."

"Didn't he tell you what to do after his death?"

Sebastian smiled. "He never said anything about killing _Sherlock._"

Eliska lowered her eyes and a sad smile floated on her lips.

"I see. So he never intended to destroy him after all."

"Of course he did."

She looked up at him in surprise.

"He's sent Sherlock in hell," Moran added.

"Really? He doesn't seem to be going through hell to me."

"That's because you don't observe."

Eliska's hands clenched into fists.

"Whose side exactly are you on, Moran?"

"Whose _side_? God, you're such a child."

"The Virgin's not in hell. He's not in hell and you're just standing there watching!"

"I have my own agenda, Liska."

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!"

Her scream frightened some birds that had been sleeping the tree and that suddenly flew away in a panicked flock.

"Don't you dare call me that," she growled.

"Why are you so angry with me?"

"Why didn't you kill John Watson already?!"

"Oh... that. Well. Why didn't you?"

"I didn't know he mattered! I didn't even know his existence until a year a year ago!"

"So you decided to send a basket of poisoned apples to his wife. Very effective."

"Don't mock me. I wanted hell for Sherlock – true hell. Just having John Watson killed wouldn't have been enough."

"Then, what exactly are you reproaching me with?"

"You knew about him! From the very beginning, you _knew_ that the man mattered to Holmes! Can't you use your imagination? There were so many ways you could have broken him. All it would have taken was to kidnap the stupid doctor and torture him to death in front of the Virgin. You could have made it last for days, weeks, even. Months. It is the mind that counts, the mental barriers that aren't easy to destroy beyond repair."

Moran was looking at her with wonder as she detailed all the things he could have done to make Sherlock go through a _true_ hell. He watched her and listened and thought that Moriarty might have overrated her sanity. Then again, the idiot had let himself get caught and tortured just to have a little private chat with the Iceman.

_What a bunch of psychos, the whole lot of them..._

"Well," he interrupted when she got down to the details of the various torture techniques she would have had performed on John to make Sherlock go mad, "that's all very interesting, but I'm sure Jim wouldn't have failed to mention John Watson to you if he'd wanted to get to Sherlock in such a way."

"How, then?" Her voice was hoarse. Sebastian saw with some relief that she was collecting herself. "How, if not through John Watson?"

"I never said it didn't involve John Watson."

Her burning eyes pierced through him again and Moran seriously wondered whether Eliska didn't have a high fever. Not that it would matter, now. He watched as the fire subsided in her pupils, watched as her face slowly became calmer. In a matter of seconds, the time it took for his words to dawn on her, she was the embodiment of resignation and serenity. She nodded gingerly, as if checking with herself that she was satisfied.

"I see," she said softly. "Look. Here's the clearing."

They walked out of the wood and into a snow-covered clearing. The moon was shining brightly above the scene. The clearing was vast, and consequently it was neither oppressive nor distressing, as it could have been at such an hour and with the snow still falling.

"You did not wear the earrings," Sebastian noted. Eliska smiled.

"That would have been _so_ commonplace."

Moran could not repress a smile. They walked into the clearing until they were both standing approximately in the middle. Sebastian looked round, feeling a presence. His eyes stopped on a heap of rocks, on top of which a crow was standing. He blinked. It was so odd and it felt so out of place that Sebastian almost laughed.

"It's a raven," Eliska said. She remembered Jim had liked ravens. All black birds, in general. It was a little cliché, she conceded. But it did not matter. She smiled. She could still hear his voice.

"_Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,  
>And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.<em>"

"Poe?" she'd asked, slightly startled.

"Poe," Jim had confirmed.

"I didn't think you would like a poem about the loss of faith," she'd commented. Jim had grinned.

"I like it because it's about a raven!"

"So you like ravens?"

"All black birds, in general."

"Why birds?"

"Because they fly, of course!" Eliska had stared. "And flying is just like falling, except there's a less permanent destination."

"What is so good about falling?"

"What's good about the Fall? Oh, Liska, _everything_ is good about the Fall!"

She had frowned. She'd never been good with riddles. As it had turned out, it hadn't been necessary. Jim had continued: "Freedom, Liska! Knowledge. Freedom thanks to knowledge."

She closed her eyes. The snow kept falling but she was not cold. _Freedom, Liska! Knowledge. Freedom thanks to knowledge. _Was that it, then? The final problem. Had Jim sent Sherlock to hell so he would gain a certain knowledge, and freedom? What knowledge? What freedom? She opened her eyes.

She knew. She turned to Moran and looked him in the eye.

"In the face of death, I know what truly counted," she declared.

Sebastian's face split into an amused smile.

Eliska looked at the raven.

"Is that it, then? Is that his lesson?"

They both looked at the raven.

"Who knows?" said Sebastian with a smile.

"You'll know for sure," she replied. "You'll see the end of it."

"I wonder."

Eliska looked at him strangely, but his gaze was still on the raven. "Well," she said. "Be that word our sign of parting."

Sebastian turned to her. They stood in silence for a while. Moran looked at the raven again with a grin. He bent and put out his cigarette in the snow, and Eliska watched absently as he pocketed the butt. While he took out his gun she wondered briefly what the apple Jim had prepared for Sherlock to bite into was exactly.

_Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,  
>It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -<br>Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'_

Perhaps it wasn't only about losing one's faith; doubt and faith were things Jim had enjoyed playing with, but never took very seriously himself. What had he taken seriously? What had truly mattered? He'd never said. Not to her. She hadn't counted. _Counted?_

_Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' _

Eliska let out a silent sigh, a disenchanted, knowing smile on her face.

Was the answer so easy in the end?

_To live, or not to live. And if to live..._

A shot. A cry.

* * *

><p><em>And we will blow away<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

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_tbc_


	41. Gutta cavat lapidem

****A.N.: ****OK, I'm doomed; it seems that I just can't write short chapters anymore. This is silly. When I think my first chapters were around 2,000 words... Anyway, I truly hope you enjoy reading this chapter – as much as it can be enjoyed. Special thanks to all reviewers – you have no idea how much I appreciate your taking time to leave comments. Well. Actually, I'm sure you do :)

_**NB:**_ all the original dialogues from the show are, obviously, not mine.

Asher, thank you for your comment - and there is no such thing as a useless review ;)

.

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

_**Gutta cavat lapidem: **__"constant dropping wears away a stone''_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

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* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XL: Gutta cavat lapidem<strong>

_Over the rainbow, by Ingrid Michaelson and Sara Bareilles_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere over the rainbow<br>Way up high,  
>There's a land that I've heard of<br>Once in a lullaby._

* * *

><p>The clouds were getting darker and darker. A man was sitting on a grave, staring blankly at the headstone. Steps were heard down the alley of the cemetery. It began to rain.<p>

"I don't understand why you needed to see the grave," the man who had just arrived grumbled. "You of all people should know how delusive the name on a gravestone can be."

"Yes. Which is why this wasn't how I checked she really was dead." Sherlock's voice was cold. Cold as the rain and cold as the grave on which he was sitting. Thoroughly cold.

"I told you she was dead!" Sebastian reminded him. "God, I should know, _I_ killed her!"

"Pray do scream that louder. Preferably in front of a police station."

Moran groaned and held the umbrella above the other man's head.

"Why are you so angry?" he asked.

"I told you to keep an eye on her, not to _kill_ her."

"What, are you being sentimental?"

"No. But I still needed her."

"Whatever for?"

"That is none of your business."

Sherlock felt the glare on the nape of his neck and turned to stare back. Sebastian's glower faded instantly and he sighed.

"Won't you stop treating me like the enemy?"

"Oh, and what exactly am I supposed to treat you like?" Sherlock inquired, standing and stepping out of the patronizing protection of the umbrella.

"I gave you a hand there!" Seb protested, vehement. Theatrical as ever. "Do you know she tried to off Mary Morstan? Y'know, John's wife! …Or perhaps I should've let her?"

"Shut up!"

Under the rain in the cemetery, Sherlock almost felt like killing Moran. This very instant. Really kill him. Trembling, pale with rage, he was very close to do so. Sebastian had clearly killed 'the Evil Queen' because he knew she was the only one, the _only_ one Sherlock could have used against him. Jim Moriarty's other pawn. Now that she was out of the picture, only Moran was left. With his secret agenda.

Killing him would be so easy right now. It would make things so simple...

...or not. Which is why Sherlock did not act upon it. He turned abruptly and walked away, ignoring the rain, ignoring the incessant whining of the other behind him.

There was no way to know whether getting rid of Moran now wouldn't be the catalyst Moriarty had planned to make Sherlock's world fall apart again. The sniper was a threat – mainly because he knew too much, knew exactly where to find Sherlock's weaknesses, and although Sherlock had no doubt that Mycroft was watching after his _friends, _a sniper could always manage to escape his attention... And anyone else's for that matter.

Hence Sherlock keeping Moran with him as much as he could. He abhorred the man, almost physically. But as he lay sleeping or pretending to sleep beside him on a bed, Sherlock knew he wasn't in London planning the demise of the people who used to be close to him. People who belonged to another time. To another life.

...But who were still alive nonetheless, and potential targets. As long as Moran was alive, there was no telling what would happen to any of them. Nothing, perhaps. There was no way to know. And that was part of the "hell" Moriarty had planned for him, Sherlock knew. Maybe Moran would be necessary to prevent harm from coming to those he had "died" to protect. Or maybe he would be the very cause of their jeopardy.

"What are you brooding over?" the annoying voice cut in.

"I was just trying to decide whether it would be less trouble to kill you now," Sherlock replied evenly.

"Hey, don't you think that's a bit extreme? Just because I killed someone? God knows this isn't the first ti–"

"I don't _care_ that you've killed someone! But you have blatantly disobeyed one of my orders. And it _is_ for the first time. Do you see what this means?"

"That I thought better and prevented a mad woman from murdering Mary Morstan and kidnapping John Watson to do God-knows-what with him?"

"Leave God alone, won't you? You are mentioning him increasingly often these days."

Moran shrugged. "Just a way of saying"

"Right. Well this _isn't_ just a way of saying: you have betrayed me. You killed her and it will cause trouble for me, but then again that's exactly _why_ you killed her."

"Self-centred, aren't we? I've come to like John, I don't want some psycho to–"

"Don't. You. Dare."

"Ooh, touchy. Come on, mate, I saved the ass of the love of your life. Isn't it worth something?"

"You disobeyed me. It means that I can never trust you with an order again. It confirms that you are completely out my control the moment I take my eyes off you."

"Well keep them on me, then," Sebastian susurrated seductively. Then with his normal, tantalizing voice: "And I notice you didn't deny it."

"Deny what? That Mary Morstan is the love of my life? Yes, well, I didn't see the point in denying _that_."

Moran shook his head with mock despair. Perhaps he should really kill him, Sherlock thought. But he knew it were his nerves speaking, and he refrained from doing something that might prove stupid later.

"But you know," Sebastian began again, and Sherlock wondered, _Will he ever stop?_, "I think Eliska was quite right in calling you 'Kazimir'. You bloody well destroyed _her_ peace, man."

"You mean when Jim was alive?"

"Yeah. And when he was dead, too. She must have been furious that you didn't react to her little serial killing. All that."

Sherlock did not find anything to answer, and decided it did not call for any answer. All the better.

"But I've thought about it too, y'know," Moran went on. Sherlock repressed a groan. The man was giving him a headache. How did Moriarty manage to _deal_ with him? Sherlock did not remember much about John now, but he was quite sure his flatmate had been rather quiet and not nearly as irritating as Sebastian. "I've thought about how you let her keep killing just because you wanted to use her. To get the whole list of IOU members, and such. You used her in many ways."

"And you stopped me before I could use her for the most important thing," Sherlock replied darkly.

Moran nodded.

"Well, we all have goals now, don't we? And we're ready to do a lot just to reach them. You had set your goal and so you calculated that it was worth letting her play the evil witch for a while. You sacrificed those young women."

"_Please_."

"I'm not sayin' it's a bad thing!" Sebastian argued as they got into a cab and gave the cabbie the address of their hotel in Prague. The man's eyes widened and he tried to explain in broken English that Prague was a few hours away from where they were, but was silenced by a wad of banknotes. "All I'm saying is that you too have blood on your hands."

"That's not the issue."

"No, it's not an issue. I'm just sayin'."

They fell silent. Sherlock was hoping it would remain like this for the rest of the ride, but unfortunately Sebastian just couldn't shut up for more than ten minutes. And that was his record.

"Say, Sherlock, did you finally get it?"

Sherlock knew it wasn't necessary for him to answer. Moran would develop soon enough, and he felt tired. So he simply waited for him to go on, deciding not to waste his breath.

"The final problem?" Seb continued. "Did you get it? It's been a while after all. You've been seeing quite a lot and travelling around the world. You've tried many different kicks and enjoyed new thrills, right? Oh don't lie, I know you've had fun to some extent. You're exhausted and you're a mess, what with all the nightmares you get, but some things _did_ shake your boat – the chases, all the _thinking_ you had to do... You can't say you've been bored, can you?"

"No, I haven't been bored."

"See? I knew jumping would still be a challenge for you in the end. Partly. You're still a kid, Sherlock, still a kid. Wanting to stand up to Big Brother. Wanting to run away from home. See the world. The big bad world. So what did you learn?"

"You make it sound like some coming-of-age novel."

"Isn't that what it is?"

Sherlock simply stared at him in the semi-darkness of the cab. The cabbie was listening to the radio, not paying any attention to them. They were on a highway and the night was beginning to fall around them.

"Well, whatever you call it. Doesn't matter. The only thing that matters, really, is the final problem. So have you figured it out? The ultimate problem. The most important one."

Sherlock gave him a bored look before answering:

"What's the point?"

Sebastian's eyes gleamed in the dark, and his face broke into a grin. The bitter smile on Sherlock's face told him his words did have the double meaning Sebastian thought they did.

"So you did get it."

"Final. Just like the final is the principal note in a mode," Sherlock murmured. He was half-talking to himself. Sometimes when he was speaking to Moran, it felt like he wasn't really. The man was so often around him that he almost became part of the furniture. A dangerous piece, though. Sherlock never forgot. But sometimes, just sometimes, it didn't seem to matter. As much as he hated to admit it, the time they had spent together had created a bond – some sick, twisted, strange bond – between them. The kind of bond you have with a person you can't stand but with whom you are forced to spend time, a lot of your time, years.

It had been years.

"Yes, and?"

"Staying alive. Worth it, or not?" Sherlock went on. "And if it is worth it... Why? What makes it worth it?"

"Yeah, you're good!"

"It's just the song. _Stayin' alive, stayin' alive_... Naturally when you put it like this, it does sound boring."

"Well, it can be sometimes." He caught Sherlock's eyes. "Don't look at me like that! You think I've never felt boredom? You think only geniuses like you and Jim can suffer from such a thing? Well you're wrong. The meaninglessness and restlessness you feel when you're back from the war as a bloody civilian can drive a man as nuts as a lack of a case for you. Your brain rotting away, it's like my body rotting away. Once you've known the thrill of taking a life, it's not that you can't stop. It's just that nothing else makes you feel more alive. Nothing else seems to have a meaning. You've got so close to _life_ itself, the power over life and death, that edge where you stand and know that with one little gesture you will put an absolute, irreversible end to everything that a person once was and is and could be, then everything else is tasteless. Everything else is meaningless. You feel surrounded by people who don't realize the value of life. Ironic, isn't it? That as a sniper I should be more aware of that than anybody."

Moran's hand was twitching around a cigarette he wasn't lighting – couldn't light, not in the cab. Sherlock waited for him to go on.

"That's why we're kinda similar, you and I. We both get off on murders."

"Not on the same end of the gun, though," Sherlock remarked quietly.

"Ha ha! No, not on the same end. Doesn't matter though, does it? What I meant was that once the case is solved, it's there again, threatening to eat us away. Meaninglessness. Boredom. The absolute void. Unnerving, ain't it?"

Sherlock did not reply. He waited for Moran to go on.

"Yeah, unnerving. Unless there's something more. Unless there's someone 'more'... More than other people. Someone like Jim. Someone like you."

"To him?"

"To you, too. Weren't you excited when you first heard of him? Didn't you think this was _new_ and _exciting_ and _meaningful_?"

"I did."

"See?"

_No_, Sherlock thought. _No, I really don't see your point_.

"What do you want to do with your life, Sherlock? What do you _really _want to do?"

It was raining again outside. The lights were getting scarcer as they drove on into the night. The cabbie was still listening to the radio.

"What's the point of it all? What's the meaning of it all? You could've jumped for real that day. But you didn't. Why?"

"Because I am not psychotic and suicidal, unlike a certain someone?"

"_Bang_. Wrong answer," Moran said as he jokingly shot him with his hand folded into a pistol. "Say, Sherlock, what do you intend to do once you're done? With the IOU people and Mycroft, I mean. I know it won't take long now. So then, what? What distraction are you going to search for next?"

"It is none of your business."

"Oh but it is, and you know it."

"Why?"

Sebastian grinned widely, his teeth white in the shadow.

"Because your answer is my cue, love!"

A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine, but he straightened up and did not let it be seen. He turned and looked out the window into the night.

"I'll get on with my life, like everyone."

Moran arched an eyebrow.

"Like everyone?"

Sherlock allowed himself to smirk.

"Well, maybe not _everyone_. But I'll find something. I can be a consulting detective again somewhere far from England where people have never heard of me. I can buy the complicity of Mycroft or decide to get rid of his surveillance and disappear from his sight. There are a lot of possibilities."

"Then you're not going back to London?"

"To London? Why would I do that?"

"Oh, I don't know, because it's your _home_?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Home is just where you make it to be."

"Ooh, wisdom, wisdom! But you'll have to be more convincing than that, Sherlock. You're talking rubbish."

"If you say so."

"Yeah I bloody say so! Seriously, if I were to kill you right now, what would you think of? What is it you would regret?"

"Hearing your voice as the last thing from this world," Sherlock replied instantly. Flatly. With no trace of a doubt. Moran rolled his eyes.

"You're insufferable. I don't know how John did it."

"I don't know either."

They froze. The air suddenly felt thick. Sherlock himself seemed somehow disturbed by what he'd just said.

"What?" Sebastian asked.

"Nothing."

_I don't know either_. What had he meant by that? It was a sentence, something John had said once... _No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time._ Something like that. Yes, something similar to that. Sherlock blinked. His chest felt strange. He realized after a few seconds that what he felt was _warmth_. It had been so long since he had felt any that he was at a loss and almost failed to recognize it.

"You've already bitten into the apple of knowledge," Sebastian murmured. He too was looking out the window, as if he weren't addressing Sherlock. "You _know_ already. You just won't acknowledge the answer. You're a fool, Sherlock. Such a fool. Jim was right. You can be like everybody else. You don't realize the value of life. You don't realize how fragile, how short it is. You just don't understand how _final_ the final problem is."

Sherlock remained silent.

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere over the rainbow<br>The bluebirds fly so high_

* * *

><p>"Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem."<p>

"Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?"

"She wanted to off Mary Morstan! Y'know, John's wife… Or perhaps I should've let her? Should I have let her, Sherlock? Do you want her dead? Is that what you want?"

"It's just... staaaying."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

"All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've _beaten_ you."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please would you do this for me?"

You reach towards him as well. Reaching out. His hand. It's so far. Yours is so cold.

"Do what?"

"This phone call it's, uh... It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"You _machine_!"

"JOHN!"

A hand on the nape of your neck. Warm. Who is it in your bed? _John..._

"Have you thought about the final problem, Sherlock?"

"What good did it do you?"

"Well, I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

"Ooh, are you being naughty, Mr. Holmes? Could it be that there is someone with whom you'd like to have dinner after all? I'm jealous."

"You are a murderer, _Kazimir_. The destroyer. How many lives do you think you've destroyed? Blood... We've all got blood on our hands. So much blood. It just won't go away, will it? No matter how many times you wash your hands, the _stench_, it just never comes off, does it?"

"Don't listen to her, mate. She's not a pro. I can tell you, you can wash it out just fine."

"Shut up! John?"

"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm right here."

"Why can't I see you?"

"You can. You see, but you don't observe. Look."

"John?"

Warmth. The hand on the nape of your neck is so warm. Holding you. Preventing you from falling. It's just a hand. It shouldn't really matter.

"Sherlock? I want to introduce you to someone. This is Mary, my wife. Mary, this is Sherlock, my..."

"Oh! But wasn't he dead?"

"Yeah, he is. He is dead. This is just a dream."

"I see. Well it's very nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. John said you'd be the godfather to our child. It's a pleasure meeting you at last." She turns to John and whispers: "But can he be a godfather if he's dead?"

"I don't know. We can always perform the ceremony in a dream."

"Right, didn't think of that."

"Kazimir, Kazimir... Not satisfied yet? Wish you could destroy more?" Red lips. Pale skin. Silvery blond hair under the moonlight. "Would you like me to do it for you? Destroy... _stop_ them. I can stop John Watson and his pretty wife. Stop their hearts."

"Stop it!"

"Oops. Too late."

"You don't know what you want, do you? What have you done to your mind?" Red lips. A voice from another life. "Mr. Holmes. I'm not one for comfort. You deserved this."

And suddenly a needle. An injection. "Good night, Mr. Holmes. Sweet dreams."

"Sherlock! Are you all right?"

"John..."

"I'm here."

"I don't need you here."

"Of course, why would you."

"Don't need you..."

"I know. It's fine. Just fall back to sleep, won't you?"

"Hand..."

"What?"

"Your hand..."

"Oh. Here."

Warmth. Why the nape of his neck?

"You're so tense. Relax. It'll be just fine."

"Don't..."

"Mm?"

You realize you feel vulnerable. The nape of the neck is such a vulnerable area. He could kill you. He could kill you with one simple gesture.

"Maybe you should."

"What?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't. No. SHERLOCK!"

* * *

><p><em>Birds fly over the rainbow<br>Why then oh why can't I_

* * *

><p>"Dear God, you look awful," Irene declared in place of greetings as she sat at the restaurant table.<p>

"Thank you," Sherlock replied dryly.

"Did you have any sleep at all last night?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

She refrained from making any comment. Sherlock was grateful for it.

"So... Here is the information you asked," she said, sliding a phone on the table – the same model Sherlock had kept years ago, although it was empty. This one wasn't. "I suppose it'll come in handy to blackmail him."

"Thank you." Sherlock pocketed the phone.

"So what else did you want from me?"

"What makes you think there was something else?"

"Well, you've come all the way here even though you have a flight tomorrow morning for Washington, and you've invited me to a restaurant, so I imagine you have another request."

"Not particularly."

She stared. He smiled amusedly.

"What's the occasion, then?"

"I want you to be careful with Moran."

She furrowed her brow. "What about him? Do you think I... He's not my type, Mr. Holmes."

"No, that is not what I meant."

"Are you ready to give your orders?"

"A minute."

The waiter bowed slightly and retreated.

"Here. Menu."

"You're not eating?"

"I'll order something. Not doing so would attract attention."

Irene smiled. "So? Moran?"

"Yes. He killed the 'Evil Queen'."

"Oh. Well, that's not much of a loss, is it?"

"Yes. It is." Maybe his voice was a little too hard. The Woman arched an eyebrow.

"Well, if you say so."

"The point _is_ that I think he might target you as well."

"Well if he does, I'm as good as dead, whatever I do, don't you think? Unless _you_ personally come to my rescue..."

"I can't. What I can do is try to keep him with me at all times, but just in case, I want you to be prepared."

"What about John?"

"What about him?"

She closed the menu sharply and gave Sherlock an irritated look. But before she could say anything, the waiter was back for their orders. Once he had left, she turned to Sherlock once more, but another waiter interrupted them.

"I am sorry, sir, are you Mr. Kazimir?"

"Yes, I am."

"Your sister just left an urgent letter for you and asked for it to be delivered to you at once. Here it is."

Irene frowned at the word "sister" but Sherlock simply thanked the waiter and took the letter. It had a red seal with a magpie on it.

"What's this?"

"Moriarty playing."

"_Moriarty_? Are we talking about the one who is six feet under?"

Sherlock nodded as he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

"Have you gone mad?"

"Not quite just yet. This is Jim's doing, enacted by Moran. I suppose he found some woman to deliver the letter for him. A messenger using a messenger, isn't it funny?"

"Yes. Hilarious," Irene replied coldly.

Sherlock glanced at her before starting to read the letter.

**The Three Wishes**

_**ONCE**_ _upon a time, and be sure 'twas a long time ago, there lived a poor woodman in a great forest, and every day of his life he went out to fell timber. So one day he started out, and the goodwife filled his wallet and slung his bottle on his back, that he might have meat and drink in the forest. He had marked out a huge old oak, which, thought he, would furnish many and many a good plank. And when he was come to it, he took his axe in his hand and swung it round his head as though he were minded to fell the tree at one stroke. But he hadn't given one blow, when what should he hear but the pitifullest entreating, and there stood before him a fairy who prayed and __beseeched him to spare the tree. He was dazed, as you may fancy, with wonderment and affright, and he couldn't open his mouth to utter a word. But he found his tongue at last, and, 'Well,' said he, 'I'll e'en do as thou wishest.'_

_'You've done better for yourself than you know,' answered the fairy, 'and to show I'm not ungrateful, I'll grant you your next three wishes, be they what they may.' And therewith the fairy was no more to be seen, and the woodman slung his wallet over his shoulder and his bottle at his side, and off he started home._

_But the way was long, and the poor man was regularly dazed with the wonderful thing that had befallen him, and when he got home there was nothing in his noddle but the wish to sit down and rest. Maybe, too, 'twas a trick of the fairy's. Who can tell? Anyhow, down he sat by the blazing fire, and as he sat he waxed hungry, though it was a long way off supper-time yet._

_'Hasn't thou naught for supper, dame?' said he to his wife._

_'Nay, not for a couple of hours yet,' said she._

_'Ah!' groaned the woodman, 'I wish I'd a good link of black pudding here before me.'_

_No sooner had he said the word, when clatter, clatter, rustle, rustle, what should come down the chimney but a link of the finest black pudding the heart of man could wish for._

_If the woodman stared, the goodwife stared three times as much. 'What's all this?' says she._

_Then all the morning's work came back to the woodman, and he told his tale right out, from beginning to end, and as he told it the goodwife glowered and glowered, and when he had made an end of it she burst out, 'Thou bee'st but a fool, Jan, thou bee'st but a fool; and I wish the pudding were at thy nose, I do indeed.'_

_And before you could say Jack Robinson, there the Goodman sat and his nose was the longer for a noble link of black pudding._

_He gave a pull, but it stuck, and she gave a pull, but it stuck, and they both pulled till they had nigh pulled the nose off, but it stuck and stuck._

_'What's to be done now?' said he._

_"Tisn't so very unsightly,' said she, looking hard at him._

_Then the woodman saw that if he wished, he must need wish in a hurry; and wish he did, that the black pudding might come off his nose. Well! there it lay in a dish on the table, and if the goodman and goodwife didn't ride in a golden coach, or dress in silk and satin, why, they had at least as fine a black pudding for their supper as the heart of man could desire._

"Well?" she asked.

"There's no note."

"What?"

"There's no note this time," Sherlock said, handing her the letter so she may read the fairy tale if she wished.

While Irene read, Sherlock thought. He never liked riddles. In the past few years, Jim had taught him to _hate _them. Like so many other things. The sniper, among others.

"What _is_ this all about?" the Woman finally asked once she was done reading. "Have you _all_ gone mad?"

"It's a riddle. Of some sort. Or just teasing."

"But what does it _mean_?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Not the faintest idea."

* * *

><p><em>Someday I'll wish upon a star<br>And wake up where the clouds are far_

* * *

><p>The telly is on but it's bringing you no solace. When has crap telly brought you anything anyway? You turn it off crossly. You look around the room to try and occupy your restless mind. The skull. <em>'He's a friend of mine. Well, when I say a friend...'<em> No, no, that's not good. Your gaze falls on the shelves of books. _'What, you haven't read any Agatha Christie? I thought you'd be one to like detective stories!' 'They really shouldn't be called that.'_ You tear your gaze away from the shelves and direct it towards the kitchen. _'Sherlock. There's a head in the fridge. A bloody head!' 'Well, where else was I supposed to put it?'_

You close your eyes. John's presence is written all over the flat. Each and every item in the room is associated with him, it crowds the space to the point where you cannot forget him for a single second.

Maybe you should move out. No, you know you can't. You physically _can't_. You're trapped in this flat for the rest of your life, you cannot leave. For the rest of your death, too. You're a ghost. You have become a ghost. He's dead and you are the ghost. It makes no sense. Nothing does anymore.

You open your eyes abruptly. All of a sudden you feel like you need to check the rooms, need to check that John really is nowhere to be found, really _is_ gone. Irretrievably.

Absolutely. Irreversibly.

The kitchen is empty. The bathroom is empty. Your room is empty.

His room is empty. You look at the bed where you have slept once – just the one time – and feel sick. You remember his shaky breath, his hand you held, the awkwardness. The intimacy.

You can't bear it.

But that's not it. That's not the worse. It's the silence.

The silence is unbearable.

* * *

><p><em>Behind me.<em>

* * *

><p>"Did we <em>have<em> to go straight to Washington DC? I mean we're gonna spend _two days_ in a bloody airplane, Sherlock!"

"In three airplanes and two airports," Sherlock corrected blankly. Sebastian groaned.

"I'll never understand this," he grumbled. "Why do we have to go to Tokyo first from Singapore? We're going the other way!"

"Will you keep whining for the entire duration of the flight, Seb?"

Moran mumbled something incomprehensible and leant back against his seat, sulking ostentatiously.

"And DC isn't even a fun city..." he continued to moan softly. "Hey, why do you keep rubbing the nape of your neck? Does it hurt?"

"No. It's just cold," Sherlock answered. Moran touched him and he shivered.

"Weird. It _is_ cold. But then again your body's always so cold. You could be the Snow Queen. Do you want me to give you a massage?"

"They've got films, you know."

"What?"

"In the airplane. Look." Sherlock turned on the screen in front of Seb and showed him. Moran stared.

"Are you treating me like a kid?"

"Yes. You can watch a movie if you like. See, you even have earphones. I'm sure you'll find a film to your liking. Or two. Or three."

"_Sherlock_."

"I want _peace_. So just watch a bloody film and _be quiet_."

"Peace?" Sebastian repeated derisively. He let out a sneering laugh. "And whose fault do you think it is you're not at peace, _Kazimir_?"

Sherlock glared, trying to convey the message _Shut up_. Apparently it wasn't as effective on Moran as it had been on that annoying teenage boy he had terrified on a flight once. Well. Perhaps because Moran _was_ a killer after all. He wouldn't be scared of murderous eyes.

"Only yours. You're responsible for your own predicament, Sherlock."

"My predicament?" he snorted, disbelieving. "And what may that be?"

"You're lonely."

"What a preposterous idea. Don't I have you?"

"Oh stop it, sarcasm doesn't suit you."

"Yes it does."

"All right, it does. But you're not cute."

"_Cute_? Oh please just watch a film and shut up."

"Did you just beg me?"

"No, but I will if it makes you shut up."

"I thought you never begged."

"You've been speaking to the Woman?"

"No. To John."

They fell silent. Then, of course, Seb began to speak again.

"Although he _did_ say you begged him twice."

"What?" Sherlock asked distractedly. He didn't remember much. It might well be true. Although he had no memory of it. Did it matter? John had been a kind man, he recalled vaguely. Why would he have needed to beg him for anything?

"Yep," Seb said with a nod, "once to get your cigarettes he'd hidden. The other time was to get the Woman's phone."

"Oh."

"Doesn't ring any bell?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why would I need to remember such things?"

"Well, perhaps you remember the _other_ time you begged him, which he omitted quite blatantly."

Sherlock did not answer, and made a mental note to ask for two seats very far away from each other the next time they had to fly somewhere.

"The day you jumped," Sebastian said in a singsong voice. "You begged him not to move, didn't you?"

"Well, if he told you that too, then it is true."

"Oh, he didn't tell me. But it was quite clear on your face. And that hand reaching towards him? Yep. Pretty obvious to me."

"Right."

Moran turned to him with an intense look, the one children have sometimes when they're accusing but do not want to voice it explicitly.

"Do you really not intend to go back to him once this is over?"

"Why would I go back to him?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"He's got his own life. Wife, a child soon, probably children eventually. He'd be useless to me on cases. He'd want to have a proper job and a proper pay for his family. And he thinks I'm dead. So it's perfect."

"Perfect?"

"Yes. Since he believes I am dead, there is no reason I should ever see him again. He probably no longer needs the thrill I provided him with, and I don't need someone to share the rent with me anymore. Well. If I _really_ needed someone, there's always you. But you're a kept man. Useless, too."

Sebastian rolled his eyes.

"God, you are so deluded. Jim said minds like yours clarified things, didn't complicate them unnecessarily. But that's definitely not true in your case. Or maybe you're just incapable of dealing with things when they get messy. I don't get it. Is it because you've killed people? He's killed people too, y'know. He doesn't only have a "good" side to him, he's no angel. You're not doing him credit if that's what you think. He's got his part of darkness."

"Wonderful. I'm sure you get along just fine."

"Ooh is that it, then? You're jealous? Another dark emotion. Hey, what are you doing?"

"Going to watch a film."

"_What_?"

Sherlock ignored him and put the earphones on, selecting a film at random. Before it started, he still had time to hear Sebastian saying:

"Right, just run away again. That'll solve everything."

He missed, however, Sebastian's very last sentence before he too put on his earphones.

"But you won't be able to keep running away for long."

* * *

><p><em>Where troubles melt like lemon drops<br>Away above the chimney tops_

* * *

><p>A bed. A hand. The only source of warmth. It feels strange. There is a voice, too, and a specific scent. You relax unwittingly even if the rest of your body feels cold.<p>

But then it all tips over and you fall on the ground. _Sand_. Earth. Where are you?

"John?"

There is a rattle next to you. You turn. A man is dying on the yellowish earth. A death rattle. Never-ending. It isn't John. A name flashes in your mind but you don't know why. You can't remember.

_Charlie_.

Suddenly you get the feeling you have to save this man, that it is very important. You kneel down and try to find his wound amidst the blood, but it is a gash. There is no way to save him.

"Sir..." the dying man whispers.

For some reason you feel that it isn't you he's addressing. Your chest tightens. Distress? Is it distress you are feeling? You do not know this man. It shouldn't matter. Yet it does. It feels like if you don't save him, if you don't save him...

"Sherlock!"

You turn. On the other side of the canyon, there is a man standing. You don't recognize him at first, because he's in uniform, and he's so far away from you... But again a name flashes in your mind.

_John_.

You don't really know why your ex-flatmate is here. Somehow you feel that he's linked to the man dying on the ground. Then it hits you. John Watson is a doctor. Maybe _he_ could do something.

"John!" you answer, gesturing to him that he should come. You realize there's a canyon between you two and it's impossible for him to come. Well. The man will die, then.

Another noise, covering the death rattle. Armed men running in your direction. That's not very good, is it? Are they on your side, or...?

"Sherlock, run!"

You turn to John. There's a canyon. Now it looks like a good thing. Yes, it's good. This canyon separating him from you. Makes him safe. He can't cross but that means the armed men can't cross either.

"SHERLOCK, RUN!"

But you don't want to. Somewhere in your mind, you know it is cruel to let him see this. You're being selfish. Still, you don't want to run. If you have to die, you would rather do it under his eyes. So that the last thing you see is him, the last thing you hear is his voice...

"SHERLOCK!"

All at once everything goes wrong. The men are on you but the moment they touch you the earth on the other side of the canyon collapses. And John with it. Into the abyss.

"JOHN! JOHN!"

The people who were supposed to kill you are now holding you back. Voices cover John's dying voice. It isn't supposed to be like this. It isn't...

"Oh, Kazimir, destroying again, aren't we?"

"People do get so sentimental about their pets."

"What about John?"

"Please don't forget to come back."

_Please_...

The void.

* * *

><p><em>That's where you'll find me.<em>

* * *

><p>It was cold outside. Sherlock checked his watch again and frowned. 7.10. They were late. Repressing an impatient sigh, he walked out of the memorial and onto the clear white marble steps, looking down on the Potomac River Tidal Basin. It was dawn. Soon the sun would rise.<p>

He walked back up the steps again and leant against one of the Ionic columns, looking up at the shallow dome as he lit a cigarette. Suddenly he heard footsteps. He turned to the statue of Thomas Jefferson and saw a man standing next to it. In comparison, the man seemed very small. Sherlock's eyes widened and he immediately put out his cigarette. Tensing. Feeling anger rise in him already.

His mind was racing, trying to understand how this had happened. He'd been tricked, surely. This wasn't the person he was supposed to meet. This...

"What are you doing here?" he seethed.

"Hello, Sherlock. It has been a while."

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" he repeated, cold anger now overcoming his fury. He considered just leaving for a second, and wondered why he'd even talked to his brother. He looked at him icily, then turned to leave.

"Wait, Sherlock. This is important."

Sherlock stopped at the top of the steps. The day was breaking.

"Why did you come?" he asked quietly.

Mycroft joined him outside and fixed his gaze on him. Instantly Sherlock knew. He loathed that gaze. It was the one Mycroft had fixed on him when he'd come to announce their father's death. Mycroft never changed.

"I came to break the news to you," he said softly. "John is dead, Sherlock."

Time stopped. Or rather it seemed like everything had stopped around them. Movement. Sounds. Time. There was nothing.

"What?"

"I'm sorry. There was nothing I could do. It was an accident. When Mrs. Watson was about to give birth, they took a cab to the hospital, and they were hit by a truck. The cab had gone through a red light. He must have wanted to get them there as soon as possible. They all died in the collision."

Mycroft spoke very fast. Unlike himself. Nothing. There was nothing around them. No sky and no buildings and no trees and no ground...

"Sherlock! Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course."

He sat down. The moment he did, it hit him. Like a train. There was nothing around him, nothing but islands crumbling and images flashing across his field of vision, more and more images, so many, so _many_ of them, and sounds and lights and colours and a voice and...

Here, use mine.

This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.

We don't know a thing about each other.

I looked you up on the internet last night.

Enough for a lifetime, far too much. - Want to see some more? - Oh, God, yes.

The police don't consult amateurs.

I was right? Right about what?

That... was amazing. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.

Fun? There's a woman lying dead.

Fantastic! - Do you know you do that out loud? - Sorry, I'll shut up. - No, it's... fine.

It's good news for breathing. Is that... three patches?

I was on the other side of London!

You've brought me here... to send a text.

Just met a friend of yours.

Do people usually assume you're the murderer?

Why didn't I think of that? - Because you're an idiot.

So I'm basically filling in for your skull? - Relax, you're doing just fine. - Well? - Well what? - Well, you could just sit there and watch telly... - What, you want me to come with you? - I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so... Problem? - Yeah, Sergeant Donovan. - What about her? - She said you get off on this. You enjoy it. - And I said "dangerous" and here you are.

I'm not his date.

There are no archenemies in real life.

You don't have a girlfriend, then? Do you have a... boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way. - I know it's fine. - So you've got a boyfriend then. - No. - Right. OK. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good. - John erm... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered, I'm really not looking for any... - No, I'm not... asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine.

That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. - And you invaded Afghanistan. - That wasn't just me. - Why aren't we back at the restaurant? - They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway; - So what were we doing there? - Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point. - What point? - You. Mrs Hudson! Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs. - Says who? - Says the man at the door.

Seriously? This guy, a junkie? You could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational. - John, you probably want to shut up now... - But come on... No... - What? - You? - Shut up!

Not good? - Bit not good, yeah. - If you were dying... If you'd been murdered – in your very last few seconds what would you say? - "Please God let me live." - Use your imagination! - I don't have to.

Are you all right? - Yes, of course I'm all right. - Well, you have just killed a man. - Yes... That's true, isn't it? But he wasn't a very nice man. - No. No, he wasn't, really, was he? - Frankly a bloody awful cabbie. - That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here. - Stop it! We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it. - Well, you're the one who shot him. - Keep your voice down. Sorry, it's just erm... nerves, I think. Sorry. You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you? - Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up. - No you didn't. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever. - Why would I do that? - Because you're an idiot. - Dinner? - Starving.

I can always predict the fortune cookies. - No you can't. - Almost can. You did get shot though. - Sorry? - In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound. - Oh. Yeah. Shoulder. - Shoulder! I thought so. - No you didn't. - The left one. - Lucky guess. - I never guess. - Yes you do. What are you so happy about? - Moriarty. - What's Moriarty? - I've absolutely no idea.

I never agreed to that! When did I agree to that?

I had a row, in the shop, with a chip and pin machine.

Is that my computer?

It's password protected.

This is my friend John Watson. - Friend? - Colleague.

How was it? - Great. She's great. - Who? - The job. - She? - It.

Where are we headed? - I need to ask some advice. - What? Sorry? - You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again.

Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice.

You couldn't let me have just one night off.

I'm not Sherlock Holmes! - I don't believe you. - You should, you know.

Are you listening to me?

I need some air.

What the _hell_ are you doing?

Anything in? I'm starving. Oh f... There's a head. A severed head. - Just tea for me, thanks. - No, there's a head in the fridge. - Yes? - A bloody head! - Well, where else could I put it?

Sherlock! Sherlock! I saw it on the telly. Are you OK?

Why did you lie? You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy? - Why shouldn't I? - Oh. Nice. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere.

Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming? - If you want me to. - Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger.

Try and remember there's a woman who might die. - What for? There's hospitals full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their beside and see what good it does them?

Charming. Well done! - Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder? - Kinder? No, no, Sherlock, _that_ wasn't kind.

Look, he did say... national importance. - How quaint! - What is? - You are. Queen and country. - You can't just ignore it. - I'm not ignoring it. Putting my best man onto it. - Right, good! Who's that?

I see... No, I don't. What am I seeing?

Has it occurred to you... - Probably. - No, has it occurred to you that the bomber is playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes- it's all meant for you. - Yes, I know. - Is it him, then? Moriarty?

Hey, Sherlock, how long? - What? - How long have you known? - Well, this one was quite simple. And the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake. - No, but Sherlock, the hostage, the old woman, she's been there all this time!

So why is he doing this, then? Playing this game with you. Do you think he wants to be caught? - I think he wants to be distracted. - Oh... I hope you'll be very happy together. - Sorry, what? - There are LIVES at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives! Just so I know, do you care about that at all? - Will caring about them help save them? - Nope. - Then I'll continue not to make that mistake. - And you find that easy, do you? - Yes, very. Is that news to you? - No, no. - I've disappointed you. - That's good, that's a good deduction, yeah. - Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.

Golem! Let him go... or I _will_ kill you.

I knew it was dangerous. - Hm? - Getting you into crap telly.

Evening. This is a turn-up, isn't it? - John! What the hell...? - Bet you never saw this coming. What... would you like me to make him say... next? Gottle o'gear, gottle o'gear, gottle o'gear. - Stop it. - Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart. - Who are you?

Sherlock, run! - Good! Veeery good! - If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up. - Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.

All right? Are you all right? - Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Sherlock... Sherlock! Oh Christ. Are you OK? - Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine. That, er... thing that you... that you did, that, um... you offered to do...that was, um... good. - I'm glad no one saw that. - Mm? - You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.

I told you, no fingers in the JAM! Why don't you use the honey pot or something?

Do people actually read your blog? - Where d'you think our clients come from?- I have a website. - In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody's reading your website.

No, no, no! Don't mention the _unsolved_ ones. - People want to know you're human. - Why? - 'Cause they're interested. - No they're not. _Why_ are they? - Look at that. One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five. - Sorry, what? - I re-set that counter last night. This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock – not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash.

You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating? - It's OK, I'm fine. Now, show me to the stream. - I didn't really mean for you. - Look, this is a six. There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass. - When did we agree that? - We agreed it yesterday. Stop! Closer. - I wasn't even home yesterday. I was in Dublin. - Well, it's hardly _my_ fault you weren't listening.

Do you just carry on talking when I'm away? - I don't know. How often are you away?

Are you wearing any pants? - No. - OK. At Buckingham Palace, fine. Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.

Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups? - We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope.

Punch me, in the face. Didn't you hear me? - I _always_ hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually sub-text.

You wanna remember, Sherlock. I was a soldier. I killed people. - You were a doctor! - I had bad days!

Mr. Archer. At the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson. - What? - I don't have the code. - One. - I don't know the code. - Two. - She didn't tell me. I don't know it! - I'm prepared to believe you any second now. Three. - No, stop!

Back to bed. You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep. - Of course I'll be fine. I _am_ fine. I'm absolutely fine. - Yes, you're great. Now I'll be next door if you need me. - Why would I need you? - No reason at all.

The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five. -Ooh, no! Christmas is cancelled! - And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat! - People like the hat. - No they don't. _What_ people?

Fifty-seven? - Sorry, what? - Fifty-seven of those texts – the ones I've heard.

It's for his own safety. - So is this: tell him you're alive. - I can't. - Fine, I'll tell him. And I still won't help you. - What do I say? - What do you _normally_ say? You've texted him a _lot_. - Just the usual stuff. - There is no 'usual' in this case. - "Good morning"; "I like your funny hat"; "I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner";"You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch'. Let's have dinner"; "I'm not hungry, let's have dinner". - You ... _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes? - _At_ him. He never replies. - No, Sherlock _always_ replies – to _everything_. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word. - Does that make me special? - I don't know. Maybe. - Are you jealous? - We're not a couple. - Yes you are. There: "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner." - Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay. - Well, _I_ am. Look at us both.

Hamish. John Hamish Watson – just if you were looking for baby names.

She's in America. - America? - Mm. Got herself on a witness protection scheme, apparently. Dunno how she swung it, but, er... Well, you know. - I know what? - Well, you won't be able to see her again. - Why would I want to see her again? - Didn't say you did.

The world doesn't revolve around you, Sherlock. Remember? There's the Sun.

Sherlock? We're out of milk.

John, I need some. _Get_ me some. - No. - Get me some. - No. Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what. Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember? No-one within a two mile radius'll sell you any. - Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?

It's this, or Cluedo. - Ah, no! - We are _never_ playing that again! - Why not? - Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why. - Well, it was the only possible solution. - It's not in the rules. - Then the rules are wrong!

Haven't pulled rank in ages. - Enjoy it? - Oh yeah.

I saw it too, John. - Just ... just a minute. You saw what? - A hound, out there in the Hollow. A gigantic hound. - Um, look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this, OK? Now you, of all people, can't just... Let's just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts. - Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true. - What does that mean? - Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid. - Sherlock? - Always been able to keep myself distant. Divorce myself from _feelings_. But look, you see... body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions. The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment. - Yeah, all right, Spock, just... take it easy. You've been pretty wired lately, you know you have. I think you've just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up. - Worked up? - It was dark and scary. - Me?! There's nothing wrong with me. - Sherlock. Sher... - _There's nothing wrong with me!_

I use my senses, John, unlike _some_ people, so you see, I _am_ fine, in fact I've never been better, so just _Leave. Me. Alone. -_ Yeah. OK, OK. And why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend. - I don't have _friends_. - I wonder why.

You being funny now? - Thought it might break the ice a bit. - Funny doesn't suit you. I'd stick to ice. - John... - It's fine. - No, wait. What happened last night ... Something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before. - Yes, you said. Fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared, you said. - No, no, no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I've _always_ been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night. - You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster. - No, I _can't_ believe that. But I did see it, so the question is: how? _How? - _Yes. Yeah, right, good. So you've got something to go on, then? Good luck with that. - Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one.

You know he's actually pleased you're here? _Secretly_ pleased. - Is he? That's nice. I suppose he likes having all the same faces back together. Appeals to his... his… - ...Asperger's?

It's here. It's in here with me. - Where are you? - Get me out, Sherlock. You have got to get me out. The big lab: the first lab that we saw. - John? John? - Now, Sherlock. _Please_. - All right, I'll find you. Keep talking. - I can't. It'll hear me. - _Keep talking_. What are you seeing? John? - Yes, I'm here. - What can you see? - I don't know. I don't know, but I can hear it. Did you hear that? - Stay calm, stay calm. Can you see it? Can you _see_ it? - No. I can... I _can_ see it. It's here. It's here. - Are you all right? John. -Jesus Christ... It was the hound, Sherlock. It was here. I swear it, Sherlock. It must... It must... Did... did you see it? You _must_ have! - It's all right. It's OK now. - No it's _not_! _It's not OK! _I _saw_ it. I was wrong.

So they didn't have it put down, then – the dog. - Obviously. - Suppose they just couldn't bring themselves to do it. - I see. - No you don't. - No, I don't. Sentiment? - Sentiment!

Listen, what happened to me in the lab? - Do you want some sauce with that? - I mean, I hadn't been to the Hollow, so how come I heard those things in there? Fear and stimulus, you said. - You must have been dosed with it elsewhere, when you went to the lab, maybe. You saw those pipes – pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve; and they were carrying the gas, so ... Um, ketchup, was it, or brown? - Hang on: you thought it was in the sugar. You were _convinced_ it was in the sugar. - Better get going, actually. There's a train that leaves in half an hour, so if you want... - Oh God. It was you. _You_ locked me in that bloody lab. - I _had_ to. It was an experiment. - An _experiment_?! - Shhh. - I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death. - I thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffee, then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore. It was all _totally_ scientific, laboratory conditions – _literally._ Well, I knew what effect it had had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one. You know what I mean. - But it wasn't _in_ the sugar. - No, well, I wasn't to know you'd already been exposed to the gas. - So you got it wrong. - No. - Mm. You were wrong. It wasn't in the sugar. You got it _wrong_. - A bit. It won't happen again.

Are you all right, Sherlock? - Of course I am, John. Just thinking about the case. - That's not your _Superior-mind-busy-with-a-case-don't-you-dare-dist urb _face, though. Is something bothering you? Maybe I can help. - I assure you, there is nothing of the sort. - Now I know you're lying. - What? Why? - Your phrasing. When you tell the truth, you're clear and simple. Also, you're always lying or at least pretending when you start with 'I assure you'.

All my cuffs have buttons. - He means thank you. - Do I? - Just say it. - Thank you.

Sorry Sherlock, I don't think I'm up for Chinese tonight. I'll just head straight to bed, if you don't mind.

Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherl... - John! Wake up! John! I'm right here! - ...Nightmare. - I had gathered as much. - Sorry, did I wake you up?

I know you're not good at this kind of things... not your area... - Maybe I should just leave. - No! Don't... I mean, you don't have to.

Did you _google _this? You knew I was going to have a nightmare?

I'm not leaving, you know.

"_Bachelor_ John Watson"? "Bachelor"? What the hell are they implying? "Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson... _confirmed_ bachelor John Watson"! OK, this is too much. We need to be more careful.

You're this far from famous. - Oh, it'll pass. - It'd _better_ pass. The press _will_ turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on _you_. - It really bothers you. - What? - What people say. - Yes. - About me? I don't understand – why would it upset _you_? - Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a _little_ case this week. Stay out of the news.

Remember what they told you: don't try to be clever. - No. - And _please_, just keep it simple and brief. - God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent. - 'Intelligent', fine; let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth. - I'll just be myself. - Are you listening to me?!

Don't do that. - Do what? - The look. - Look? - You're doing the look again. - Well, I can't see it, can I? It's my face. - Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a "we both know what's really going on here" face. - Well, we _do_. - No. _I_ don't, which is why I find The Look so annoying.

Should have gone with him. People'll think... - I don't care what people think. - You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong. - No, that would just make _them_ stupid or wrong. - Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're… - That I am what? - A fraud. - You're worried they're right. - What? - You're worried they're right about me. - No. - That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well. - No I'm not. - Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can't you _see_ what's going on? - No, I know you're for real. - A hundred percent? - Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick _all_ the time.

Apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Superintendant.

Just so you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just a... you know... - ...my hostage. - Hostage! Yes, that works – _that_ works!

Take my hand. - Now people will _definitely_ talk. - The gun! - Leave it! - Sherlock, wait! We're going to need to coordinate.

Mrs Hudson – she's been shot. - What? How? - Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract ... Jesus. _Jesus_. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go. - You go. I'm busy. - Busy? - Thinking. I need to think. - You need to..? Doesn't she mean _anything_ to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her. - She's my landlady. - She's dying! You _machine. _Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own. - Alone is what I have. Alone protects me. - No. _Friends_ protect people.

Hello? - John. - Hey, Sherlock, you OK? - Turn around and walk back the way you came now. - No, I'm coming in. - Just do as I ask. Please. - Where? - Stop there. - Sherlock? - OK, look up. I'm on the rooftop. - God. - I... I can't come down, so we'll... we'll just have to do it like this. - What's going on? - An apology. It's all true. - What? - Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. - Why are you saying this? - I'm a fake. - Sherlock... - The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes. - OK, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the _first time we met_, you knew all about my sister, right? - Nobody could be that clever. - _You_ could. - I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick. - No. All right, stop it now. - No, stay _exactly_ where you are. Don't move. - All right. - Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me? - Do what? - This phone call – it's, er... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note? - Leave a note when? - Goodbye, John. - No. Don't. No. _SHERLOCK!_

"Sherlock? Sherlock."

His brother's voice brought him abruptly back to reality. The train had passed, leaving him crushed on the railway. The sun had risen now. It looked absurd. And blurry.

"Sherlock..."

The weight was crushing him. Each and every memory he had so earnestly deleted, every sound every colour every smell every thought every fear every hope every _feeling _he'd ever felt in connection to John Watson had come down on him and smashed him beyond repair. He felt shattered. Scattered like the islands in his mind archipelago.

He remembered everything. He knew what he had lost.

"Sherlock."

He didn't hear Mycroft. The words were failing him and it felt like someone were trying to choke him to death. He couldn't breathe. _Breathing's boring._ He retched but instead of vomiting let out a sob. Stifled the next one. Fumbled with his packet of cigarettes and took one out. Dropped it. Took out another one. Dropped it. The trembling in his hands got worse. Everything was blurry.

He realized he was crying.

The moment he became aware of it, it became worse. He stood up and turned to Mycroft abruptly, furious and shaking, accusatory. Despairing.

"Why? Why did it happen?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"WHY DID YOU LET IT HAPPEN?"

"Sherlock..."

"What's the point in being so bloody powerful if you can't even... if you can't..."

His voice broke and he turned away. He choked on another sob.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock pushed him away violently.

"Why? Why, Mycroft?! Why..."

"There."

Mycroft then did something he hadn't done in years; something he had done only once, so long ago Sherlock barely remembered. It all came back to him as his older brother hugged him.

He was three, or four perhaps. He'd broken a vase his mother loved and tried to fix it. He'd cut himself and blood had stained the white carpet. Their mother had found nothing better to do than shout at him and slap him. She'd just had a bad day and had loved the vase, and she never hit Sherlock again. Mycroft could tell she regretted her gesture the moment she had slapped him. She had given her eldest son a look, still furious but with a tinge of shame and a clear request written on her face, and she had left the room. Mycroft knew she wanted him to fix it. Not that he needed her to tell him. He'd hugged Sherlock and Sherlock had sobbed and sobbed, repeating again and again, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm..."

Now he was repeating "Why? Why, Mycroft, why?", his tone desperate, angry, accusatory, pleading. Mycroft simply hugged him awkwardly, knowing it would never happen again. Knowing that after this, Sherlock would hate him more than ever. But he regretted nothing. He had been right to do this, now he was sure. Sherlock had done something terrible to his mind, Irene Adler had been correct. He tightened his embrace for a second, then slackened.

"I lied," he said.

Sherlock froze in his arms. He stepped back and pushed him away. The sun had risen and was reflected in thousands of glitter specks on the surface of the river. Sherlock's face was devastated, his skin colourless, his eyes haunted. Shining with tears. He looked like a very small child.

"What?"

"I lied," Mycroft repeated, trying to harden his voice. "John isn't dead. Nor is his wife. It was a lie. There never was any accident."

Sherlock staggered and had to lean against one of the columns.

"I'm going to kill you," he said flatly, completely serious. "I'm going to kill you." He was exhausted and fell silent for a moment. "Why?" he eventually asked again, his voice much calmer. Wearier, too. "Why did you lie to me?"

"I–"

"Only a few more months and you'll have it, your bloody list! It's almost ready, I'm almost done, why did you come here just to... just..." He clenched his fists against the column. "I hate you. You didn't have to..."

"Yes, I did. I did, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave him a betrayed look. Mycroft flinched. He knew he should be patronizing, but right now he just wanted to hug his brother again, even if Sherlock took advantage of it to stab him to death. Instead, he went for the harsh bluntness.

"You're an idiot. You didn't intend to come back, did you?"

"You would have had the list."

"I don't _care_ about the list, Sherlock!"

Sherlock stared icily.

"You don't?"

"Sherlock–"

"You've made me do all this for _nothing_?"

"Don't make this all about me. Don't you dare. I am partly responsible, I won't deny it. But you're the one who jumped. You're the one who went all on your own. You're the one who sulked and refused my help."

"Ha! Forgive me, I was under the impression that it was _him _you had helped."

"Yes, you're right. I told him what he wanted to hear."

"Very kind of you."

"I think it was, yes."

Sherlock's gaze hardened.

"So you knew he would die, then?"

"Yes, I did. It was obvious."

The younger man chuckled madly. "Obvious? Was it? How did you know he wouldn't kill _me_?"

"I would have never jeopardized your life, Sherlock."

"Really? Oh, that's right. You worry _constantly_."

"Sherlock, this isn't about me."

"You're right. It isn't. Now get out of my sight."

He turned to leave, but Mycroft grabbed his arm firmly.

"What are you doing, Sherlock, just _what are you doing?_"

"Let go of me!"

"No. Never."

Their eyes met. Sherlock was shaking with rage. His gaze was lost. The gaze of a lost child.

"Why did you lie to me, Mycroft?"

"Because it's important. It matters. Sherlock, you must come back to London."

"I can't."

"Soon."

"No. I don't want to."

Mycroft let go of him. The memorial was silent under the pink orange glow of the rising sun. The statue was standing dark against the sheer white of the monument – a sheer white filling gradually with the salmon tinges of the sunlight. It was calm and beautiful. Sherlock shivered.

"Do you know what life is about, Sherlock?" Mycroft finally asked, his tone soft. Almost sad. Not patronizing. "Life is about dying."

Sherlock looked at him. His brother looked very old suddenly.

"John will die," Mycroft went on. "You will die. And when you do, you will never be able to see him again."

"Well, let's see the bright side of things," Sherlock cut in caustically. "I'll never be able to see _you _again either."

"...No, indeed. You won't," Mycroft answered quietly. Sherlock frowned.

"So what, Mycroft? Have you come to tell me that we all die? Why, thank you, I think I had–"

"NO! No, you _haven't_ realized, Sherlock, you don't realize it at all! Think, just think and face it for once. The solitude. The meaninglessness. The lethal boredom. John Watson dispelled it all. It doesn't make sense and that's your excuse but he dispelled it all."

"He didn't dispel the–"

"The boredom? What boredom are you talking about, Sherlock?" Mycroft interrupted sardonically. "The one where you whine all day and throw board games on the floor? Don't make me laugh. That's not boredom. You know what boredom is, Sherlock. That wasn't boredom."

"Yes, it was!"

"No, it wasn't."

"How would _you_ know? Why should you know everything better than me? Why should you know what's good for me better than I do? Who do you think you are?!"

"Nobody. I'm nobody to you, Sherlock. Not even your archenemy."

Sherlock's anger deflated at once at the genuine bitterness in his brother's tone.

"But _he_ is somebody. He counts," Mycroft continued, looking at the glittering river.

"What happened to 'all men die, caring isn't an advantage'?"

"All men die, Sherlock. Caring _isn't_ an advantage. But it's too late. You already care. Don't be even more stupid and make yourself suffer for the time you have left."

"And what about you, then? The man in the tower. Are _you_ sad and lonely? Do _you_ suffer?"

"I don't."

Sherlock snorted.

"I do _not_ care, Sherlock. I'm not like you."

"Are you going to say you wished you were now? Is that part of your script?"

"No, Sherlock. No, I don't wish I were. Look at you. How much you are hurting because of _people_... It's beyond me."

"You too have people you care about," Sherlock countered defensively. "Humans can't live without caring even if a little bit. Relationships. We can't completely avoid them. You can't end up feeling nothing unless you've gone mad. You know that. We both know that."

"When Mrs. Hudson dies, I will find it regrettable. I might even miss her at some point. But Sherlock, I will not _hurt_. It will not _pain_ me the way it would pain you."

"How do you know?"

Mycroft looked him in the eye.

"I wouldn't have jumped, Sherlock. I would've tried to stop Moriarty, have him arrested even, perhaps killed, whatever the risk. I would have wanted to win whatever the cost."

"Is that why you sold me to him?"

"...That's different."

"Is it? Ooh, I see." Sherlock grinned. In this instant he felt such hatred for his brother that he had no qualms about wounding him as deeply as he could. And he could. He was, after all, his brother's only weakness, and now he saw it as clear as day. "And he did see it too, didn't he? God, he must have had some fun torturing you."

"You know nothing of what happened between us," Mycroft said darkly.

"So something did happen?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I think we made a bet."

"A bet?"

"Yes. A bet on you."

"Whether I'd sacrifice myself for my 'friends' or not?"

"Don't be stupid, we both knew you would do _that_."

"Then what?"

"I'll let you think about it."

"Mycroft!"

"Sherlock. I am serious. So please be serious too. Stop playing. Life isn't a game. That's just a myth for stupid people – ordinary people. But you know better. You've seen it, haven't you? The void. A game has rules; there may be partners, opponents; stakes; a goal to achieve in order to win. But that isn't life. You can make it look like that, of course. Many people enjoy living their lives like games. Society helps you a lot with it. It isn't so bad, I suppose. But us... You, Moriarty... We'd get bored. _He_ got bored. So bored."

"Are you sympathizing?"

"Aren't you?"

"No."

"Exactly."

They fell silent. The calm was driving Sherlock to distraction. He felt ready to burst.

"John is alive, Sherlock. You are alive. I'll let you draw the conclusion yourself."

With one last touch to the arm, Mycroft left, this time not trying to be dramatic. He simply took the steps, one by one, and walked down the path alongside the river until he disappeared from Sherlock's view.

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere over the rainbow<br>The bluebirds fly._

_Birds fly over the rainbow  
>Why then oh why can't I<em>

* * *

><p>"I'm not leaving, you know."<p>

Your breath catches in your throat. From John's palm, you can feel the warmth spreading. You wish you never had to let go.

"John..." you begin tentatively. "Friends protect people. And alone protects me. All that counts is the Work. For you, now, it is family. I knew it would be the end the moment I jumped. I knew I would never see you again. I cannot go back to you."

He rubs his thumb against the back of your hand.

"What are you saying, Sherlock? You're right here with me."

You shake your head sadly.

"No, John. This is just a dream."

He chuckles. "You must be quite sleepy indeed," he teases as he lowers himself on the bed and snuggles up closer to you. With his other hand, he touches your cheek gently. "Your face is so cold."

"John, I'm serious," you croak. "This is–"

But you don't have time to finish as John's lips are pressed very lightly against yours, barely a touch – but silencing you.

"You've been wondering how it would feel, haven't you?" he murmurs. Another chuckle. "I can tell when you're curious about something. You should have just asked."

He kisses you again. There is a distinct wetness on your face. You close your eyes.

Sherlock opened his eyes and John's touch vanished. John vanished. He was awake. Moran was sleeping next to him, face buried in his pillow.

_Do you wish you could've had him before you left?_

Sherlock shivered. The wetness was still there on his face.

_But seriously. Don't you wish you had held him just once?_

He began to tremble a little and rolled onto his side, his back to Moran.

_But you're in love with John!_

Gingerly, Sherlock touched his lips.

They were as cold as ice.

* * *

><p><em>Why then oh why<em>

_can't_

_I _

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_tbc_


	42. Ab imo pectore

****A/N: ******A John-centric chapter! It's been a while. Well, when I say a while... Please do review if you've got the time, any kind of comments is very, very appreciated! :)**

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

_**Ab imo pectore: **_"_from the bottom of my heart"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XLI: Ab imo pectore<strong>

_When the leaves, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>When the leaves turn brown<br>And they cover this lonely town_

* * *

><p>"Well, that's quite nice! Quite nice indeed."<p>

"Isn't it?"

"So, this is the kitchen..."

You smile as Mary shows everyone around her new flat. It is quite small, very similar to 221B, but without the extra room upstairs; Mary says she doesn't need it anyway, as she can sleep in the living-room and make it her room as well. "Plus, when Blake's grown up, he can use the extra room in _your_ flat!" she told you. That's true. These past few months, you haven't been using your old room at all. It could easily become Blake's, eventually.

"John! Can't you help a bit?"

"Yes, of course!" He runs to the door where Seb is coming in, carrying a wardrobe with another man, a friend of his.

"Man, this is heavy," he whines. "God Mary, why do you need such a big wardrobe anyway?"

"Be quiet, Seb. I'm sure you've got more clothes than I do, you womanizer."

Sebastian shrugs.

"Where should we put it?" his friend – Ron, you think he said, his name's Ron – asks.

"In the room. It's at the end of the corridor. Here, I'll show you the way. John, take Blake."

And without further warning she puts the baby in your arms. Harry, who is sorting cutlery in the kitchen with Chris, turns to you with a smile.

"It is a lovely place. It's lucky Mrs Turner's tenants moved out, really. Don't you think this is great? You'll be living close by. You'll get to see your son whenever you want."

You return her smile and look down at the baby you're holding. Blake blinks. You believe he looks like Mary, but she says he looks like you.

"Sorry, where are the glasses? I'd like a cup of water."

You turn to the man – Ron – and gesture to a cupboard.

"Thanks a lot for your help," you tell him.

"That's fine. Seb doesn't often ask for favours. He's a discreet guy, y'know. Didn't even know he had such... well, mature friends."

Chris lets out a laugh. You really like her laugh. The exact opposite of Sherlock's, open and tinkling. Sherlock's was low and discreet. "Mature? Have you seen them?"

"I mean, not bachelors who laze around all day. Real couples – married people – who have jobs, and all that..."

"So you don't have a job?" you ask idly.

"Well, I'm an heir, you see," Ron replies with an apologetic smile. He looks younger than he is, you can tell. Not as carefree as he wants to let on, either.

You repress a smirk. _I'm becoming like Sherlock, now. Well. Not exactly _like _him. He was better. _

"Was that the last piece of furniture?" Seb inquires as he comes back from the room with Mary.

"Yup," she answers, her eyes catching yours fleetingly. You exchange a passing smile.

"Where did you get all of this, by the way?" Seb goes on.

"I had a flat before I moved in with John, you know," she reminds him with a pout.

"I really like the table," Chris chimes in. "Not a very common colour."

"Yes, I like it too! I tried to find a matching tint for the crib. And John, don't make that face."

"What? What face?"

"Your _oh-no-this-is-a-boring-conversation-starting-and-I -have-no-way-to-escape_."

"_What_? I don't make such a face!"

"Wrong answer, John. Should've said 'of course it isn't boring, dear'," Harry remarks, trying to mimic your voice – and not exactly succeeding.

"Don't butt in, Harry," Chris tells her with a nudge. You shake his head.

"So, Ron. Been hanging out with Seb for long?" you ask.

"John!" Harry exclaims.

"Just let him change the subject," Mary interrupts before your sister can express her disapproval, "so as I was saying, that crib..."

"Yeah, I've known him since uni. We weren't exactly pals, then. But we played together once in a while," Ron answers.

"Played? Played what?"

"Whist!"

"Seriously, _whist?"_

"What's wrong with that?" Seb harrumphs.

"Nothing's wrong with that. Just didn't think you were the type."

"Oh he's quite good at it."

"Is he?"

"John. Let's have a house-warming here on Saturday!" Mary says as she comes bouncing towards you to get Blake. The baby seems happy.

"He likes you better than me," you comment.

"Don't talk rubbish. He just doesn't like your sweater."

"Excuse me?"

"It's green. He doesn't like green, remember? Since when do you have green sweaters anyway?"

"You gave it to me last Christmas."

"Oh. Right. Well I'll buy you another colour this Christmas."

Everyone bursts out laughing. You shake your head again and turn to look at your son. He is giggling too, and his impish nose creases from his laughter. You smile. He really does look like his mother.

* * *

><p><em>And I miss your kiss<br>When the leaves turn brown _

* * *

><p>"I never thought I'd receive a phone call from you," you declare by way of greeting. Then you realize you might have sounded a little harsh, and amend: "Good morning, Mycroft."<p>

"Hello, John. You are the one who so kindly pointed out you had a phone when we first met. So I thought... I should just phone you."

You smile stiffly. You still have a hard time dealing with Mycroft. It's been over two years now, it shouldn't be so raw anymore. But it is.

"You got here rather quickly for someone working in a clinic on the other side of London," Mycroft comments casually. A waiter comes and serves them coffee. "I took the liberty to order for you."

"Thank you," you reply perfunctorily. "And I've been reading London maps. Memorized some of them eventually."

"Mmm. Still retracing Sherlock's footsteps, aren't you?"

You put down your coffee abruptly and give Mycroft a cold stare.

"What did you call me for, Mycroft?"

"Just to have a chat."

"About what? Sherlock is dead, there is no reason I should still be of any interest to you."

Something like genuine pain flashes across Holmes the elder for a second, and you almost feel a pang of remorse. Almost. You avert your gaze.

"I just wanted to know how you were doing."

"I'm fine. Thank you." _As if you gave a damn. _

"I am quite amazed with the way you are handling this."

"What?"

"Bereavement."

"Oh. Well. It's been months. Years. I couldn't want to murder you forever. Or I would have already done it."

Mycroft does not reply immediately.

"How is your son? And Mary?"

"You know they're doing well. Why are you trying to make small talk? You can deduce all of this. You already have the answers to all of your questions."

"Not all."

"Then just ask the ones you want to ask."

"You're still mad at me."

"Aren't you? Mad at yourself?"

Mycroft's eyes turn to slits. You drink your coffee in one go.

"You didn't put sugar," Mycroft remarks quietly.

You smile bitterly. Your hand is shaking, but you do not try to hide it. Mycroft has already noticed anyway.

"You think I'm coping well, do you? Well I am. I truly am. So what are you expecting now? My thanks? Do you want me to express my gratitude for showing me that drugs would not help, that _death_ would not help?"

"I don't need your thanks."

"Well good, because you won't have them."

"Please calm down, John."

"I am calm. You still haven't told me what you want. Why did you call me here? To see if I still took two sugars in my coffee? Or did you time me, perhaps, see how long it took me to get here?"

"No, that's not it."

"Then why don't you save us some time, Mycroft? I'm no genius, I won't guess. And I don't have all night."

"I've come to tell you something."

"Good. I'm listening."

"This must remain between us."

"Yes?"

"The one behind the Snow White murders is dead. You do not have to worry about this case anymore."

"Oh."

You search Mycroft's eyes a moment. You see nothing. The other's face is as smooth as ever, featureless. You give up. "Does Lestrade know?"

"No. And he won't."

"Right. Fine. No use asking you the whole story, I suppose?"

"Your supposition is correct."

"All right. Excuse me! Can I have the bill?" you ask a waiter.

"Please. You're my guest."

"No, thank you. And you're not mine, either. Have a good day, Mycroft."

"John."

You take a deep breath before turning to the other man. He's just like Sherlock. He's kept the most important for the end. Manipulation, was it? _More like theatrics._

"Sherlock wasn't easy to live with."

"Have you come to tell me that? You must be joking."

"It must have been difficult sometimes. Hellish even. You probably found him quite insufferable."

"What?"

"Especially when he tried to completely stop smoking and refrained from using patches."

"Mycroft. What are you trying to say?"

"Would you have cared for him even if he had been broken?"

"Broken?"

You sit back down in surprise. This is new. This isn't like Mycroft at all. You're absolutely certain you are missing something somewhere, something very important.

"What do you mean broken?"

"I don't know. Like you had been after the war. Or perhaps like he would have been had he still been a drug addict."

"I don't understand."

"Would you have stayed by his side if he had been too much of a mess to provide you with the excitement you craved?"

You simply give him a look and sit back.

"Don't tell me you cannot deduce that. Have your skills become rusty?"

"I want to hear you say it."

"Why does it matter? He's dead." You loath the quiver in his voice.

"Yes. But had he been alive when you met Mary Morstan, had he been alive and only a burden, would you have stayed with him?"

"Mycroft."

"If he had been charged with the murder of Jim Moriarty and every other deed the consulting criminal managed to blame on him, would you have stood up for him and remained on his side until the end?"

"What do you think, Mycroft?"

"Say it."

"Of course I would have," you answer between gritted teeth. "You know I would have."

"And what if he had been the murderer once?"

"He would never have."

"But what if he had?"

"He would _never_ have."

"You think he couldn't have killed someone?"

"That's not what I said."

"Oh?"

"He wouldn't have been a murderer. Perhaps he could have killed. No, he probably could have. Self-defence. Something like that."

"He could have sacrificed lives."

"No, he would have considered it to be a failure. He liked to win."

"What if winning made some sacrifices necessary? Such as killing or letting people die?"

"Mycroft, what are you trying to tell me? Is there something you want to tell me?"

"No, there is something I want _you_ to tell _me._ You've seen him at his worst. You've seen a side of him that greatly disappointed you. And there are some things you might have guessed. Such as the way he obtained Moriarty's name from the old cabbie."

You clench your fists under the table. No, it hadn't crossed your mind at first. But then you had considered it, yes. Sherlock must have tortured the old man to some extent to make him speak. It hadn't occurred to you until much later. When Sherlock was already dead and there was nothing to hang on to except scraps of memories.

"Boredom can make him inhuman, if that's what you're hinting at, I know. He isn't a high functioning sociopath, but he does have issues. Did."

You slap yourself mentally and stand up once more. "Well, if we're done, I'll just–"

"If Sherlock had been bored, terribly bored, or if for any reason he'd been inhuman – if you had met Mary Morstan then, would you have still cared for him?"

You give him a caustic smile.

"I met Mary in a pub, you know. A pub where Sherlock caught a murderer by hitting on him a few years ago. Does that answer your question?"

"Only partly."

"Look, Mycroft. I saw Sherlock when he played with Moriarty for the first time. He was excited. He was genuinely _happy_. He didn't give a damn about the victims. He didn't consider himself responsible in any way. He got upset because he lost even though technically he had solved everything. I knew him, as much as someone could. So what are you testing me for now?"

"Do you miss him?"

"God, Mycroft, that's enough."

But as you turn to leave for good, Mycroft stops you with an iron grip.

"Please. Just answer me."

The pleading, more than the grip, makes you stop. Your fists clench once more and you grit your teeth. "I miss him. Every day of my life, I miss him. Every hour, every second. But it won't bring him back. Nor will this awful questioning you're imposing on me. I'm out of here. Goodbye, Mycroft."

You miss Mycroft's insistent gaze on your back as you leave; miss his discreet, jaded smile.

"Won't bring him back, you say? I wouldn't be so sure."

Under the table, Holmes the elder stops the recorder.

* * *

><p><em>When the snow comes down<br>And it covers this lonely town_

* * *

><p>"God, it's freezing out!" Lestrade groans as they enter the pub.<p>

"We'll get warmer once we have a drink," you reply with a smile.

"You drinking?"

"Just a pint. Mary threw me out of the flat so I could have some time off, since I've been taking care of Blake all day – she's exhausted, she seriously needed to sleep. But then she had a lot to drink yesterday at the home-warming, so I guess she felt she owed me."

Greg shakes his head as you sit at the bar.

"I'll never understand your relationship. Aren't you getting a divorce?"

"We are. Well. Mary wants to, at any rate."

"Oh. So you don't?"

"It might be for the best. She deserves to meet someone who loves her, and her only."

"Yeah," Greg answers, clearly not knowing what else to say. You smirk and order two beers. "So where do you sleep these days?" the D.I. goes on.

"At Mary's flat. I've told her I can take Blake sometimes at night in 221B so she can rest a bit, but she doesn't want to. Says she'll give him to me when he's stricken with teenage angst. Not keen to deal with that."

"Ha ha! She's something."

"She is."

"So, how does it feel?"

"What?"

"Well, being a father. I imagine you feel... different."

You give it a thought for a moment.

"Not really," you answer at last. "I mean, everything's different, but I don't _feel_ different. I don't think this has changed me. I had given up on becoming a father. Having kids was never part of the picture since I came back from the war."

"Hence your sharing a flat with Sherlock."

"Exactly."

"But precisely, didn't you panic? If you'd never intended to be a father, it must have come as a shock."

"Well, yes. Especially since Mary told me just after she'd said we should get a divorce."

Greg chuckles and puts a hand on your shoulder. It is through these little gestures that you truly realize how close you have become. Less than two years ago this kind of situation – you and Greg having a pint together at the pub – would have been unthinkable. Just going to the pub would have been unthinkable. But most of all, you would have never gone anywhere with _Lestrade_ at the time.

"It'll be all right, though," you continue, trying to focus on the conversation again. "Sherlock's not around anymore, I should be able to deal with one brat."

"Aw, that's harsh. True, though. Can you imagine Sherlock with a child in the flat?"

"God, I'd have to hire a baby-sitter."

"No one but you could baby-sit him."

"I thought that was your role."

"And I failed."

You exchange a knowing smile.

"In fact, I think it will be less trouble to look after Blake than after Sherlock," you muse. Lestrade gives you a look.

"You _think_?"

* * *

><p><em>Then I miss your kiss<br>When the snow comes down _

* * *

><p>"How many roads must a man walk down,<br>Before you call him a man?  
>How many seas must a white dove sail,<br>Before she sleeps in this sand?"

Sitting in the kitchen with Blake while Mary is having her "guitar lesson" with Seb – and Ron, whom she seems to have taken a liking to – you absent-mindedly rocks your son in your arms, your discarded book, _An Introduction to Chemical Pharmacology, _lying on the table.

"Yes, how many times must the cannon balls fly,  
>Before they're forever banned?"<p>

Sherlock played the violin, but he never sang. Probably never would have. Still, you wonder how his voice would have sounded if he had sung. Not necessarily while playing, but...

"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind."

You smile as Mary joins Seb in his singing for the refrain.

"The answer is blowin' in the wind."

Ron begins to play his mouth organ, and you are not sure why you like the sound of this instrument. It is rather whiny, and it could even wake up Blake. It does, in fact. But as the baby opens his eyes and blinks, you can't help but smile down at him, and he returns your smile, a little drowsily.

"No, no, during the harmonica part, what you play is CDGCCDG, not CGDCCGD," Seb suddenly interrupts. Mary runs a hand through her hair.

"Right. Sorry. Let's do that part again. Ron?"

"No problem."

Ron starts playing the harmonica melody again. You look down at your son's sleeping face. You miss the sound of the violin. Sometimes, the profound lack you feel within yourself, this void that you can feel almost physically in your chest, makes you doubt that you'll ever be a good father. There is an emptiness inside of you that doesn't square with the role, somehow.

"Yes, and how many years can a mountain exist,  
>Before it is washed to the sea?"<p>

Mary looks very happy as she joins Seb in his singing. Until now she only sang the refrain, but it turns out she knows the song pretty well. Actually, it is a rather beautiful song. For some reason you cannot put his finger on, it also seems to fit Sebastian very well.

"Yes, and how many years can some people exist,  
>Before they're allowed to be free?"<p>

As you look at the three figures in your living-room, you realize how little people know about each other. How fragile any kind of bond is. You realize you know nothing about Mary's childhood, nothing about everything she's lived during her thirty years of existence or so; the later you meet somebody in life, the harder it is to truly get to know them.

"Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head,  
>And pretend that he just doesn't see?"<p>

You suddenly feel all at once very close and very far from these three people standing in your flat. What does Sebastian really care about in life? Is there anything he holds dear? Why does Ron still hang out with him? Does he really consider himself a lazy bachelor, an heir without a purpose in life? You have been consorting with Seb for a while now, months. Still, you don't even know the kind of music he likes. His favourite colour. Whether he takes any interest in sports or politics. You've talked about his travels, but it is always so hard to tell whether the idiot is making it all up or not.

"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,  
>The answer is blowin' in the wind."<p>

If Sherlock hadn't died so prematurely, would you have really got to know him better? People never try to get to know better those they're already close to, those who have become so much part of their life that they take their presence for granted.

"Yes, and how many times must a man look up  
>Before he can see the sky?"<p>

Thinking about it still hurts, of course. Life and death are such heavy things to deal with. Looking at Blake's peaceful face, you wonder whether parents ponder it at all before getting kids: whether they are aware of the extent of their responsibility in giving birth to someone – in giving life. And death, incidentally, because they come together, don't they? There's no one-way ticket to life.

"Yes, and how many ears must one man have,  
>Before he can hear people cry?"<p>

You would like to know what Sherlock's parents were like. Admittedly his mother is still alive, but Sherlock himself had so little contact with her, and apparently so little attachment, that you can hardly consider paying her a visit. And as far as you know, even Mycroft spends Christmas alone. It doesn't look like a very united family.

"Yes, and how many deaths will it take until he knows,  
>That too many people have died?"<p>

You catch Seb's eyes as he looks up and you almost feel like the question is addressed to you. Which doesn't really make sense. Sebastian sings on.

"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind; the answer is blowin' in the wind."

Ron plays the harmonica again and Mary turns to you with a triumphant grin. _I did it! I can play now, see? _

Still feeling Sebastian's gaze on you, you return her smile.

* * *

><p><em>On Christmas evenings like this<br>I wonder if it's me you'll miss_

* * *

><p>"It's been thirty-one months."<p>

"What?"

"Sorry, did I just say that out loud?"

"Mm."

You rub your yes and try to will the remaining images of your nightmare away.

"What time is it?"

Mary shifts in the bed next to you to look at the alarm clock.

"Six twenty."

You groan. "I'm sorry if I woke you up."

"Blake woke me up. Didn't you hear him about ten minutes ago?"

"...No."

She laughs. "Oh well."

"Is he back to sleep?"

"Yup."

You fall silent. Mary's room in her new flat – well, what turns into her room at night but is in fact the living-room – is very white. Since she moved in you have been bringing her yellow flowers every time it is necessary to replace the bouquet standing proudly, if a little incongruously, on her desk near the window. In the semi-darkness of the room, you can see that the mimosas are beginning to wilt.

"Nightmare?" she asks.

You nod voicelessly.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"It's all right. Go back to sleep."

"Well, I'm trying."

"Are you saying me talking could help you?"

"Maybe."

You turn to Mary and give her a look. As your eyes lock, you start chuckling. Once your laughter quiets down, Mary becomes serious again, and takes your hand in hers.

"Thirty-one months since he jumped?"

Your face loses its smile and fills with a blunt sadness which you don't even try to hide.

"It's funny how it seems as if it were only yesterday, and at the same time, like it belongs to another time, almost another world."

She starts stroking the back of your hand soothingly.

"I was remembering some of his words," you go on. "The conversation we had about the solar system."

Mary arches an eyebrow. "That was more comic than nightmarish, though..."

"He said that he only put things that were really useful in his 'hard drive', and not rubbish, which is what ordinary people did. Because they filled their heads with rubbish, he said, they had a hard time getting at the stuff that mattered."

"I guess he was right. Many people spend a lot of their time thinking about little things, troubles that don't really matter, instead on focusing on the things they care about or the people they love."

"That's not what he meant, though."

"I guess not."

"All that mattered to him was the 'Work'. He said it. It was vital to him. Without cases, he said he felt like his brain was rotting. And he had indeed a very hard time dealing with boredom."

Mary squeezes your hand a little, as if in reproach, or in warning.

"John. You know that isn't quite true. You're not being fair."

"What do you mean?"

"If all that had mattered to him had been the Work, why would he have jumped? I thought your theory was that he had to sacrifice himself in order for some people, including you, to live."

You shake your head. "I know. Of course you're right. He wouldn't have let us die. But anyhow, Moriarty's little scheme had rather compromised his job. Sherlock could have hardly continued to be a consulting detective after all that ruckus. Even private clients might have not trusted him anymore."

"Eventually, they might have. Look at what Greg did for his reputation – and that fan club of his! All thanks to you."

"Thanks to _me_? I did nothing, Mary, I–"

"The people from the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement are all clearly readers of your blog, John. They believed you, over the newspapers."

"I did nothing to clear Sherlock's name."

"You're writing again now. You're posting on your blog, telling people more about him, showing them how human he truly was."

You smile dejectedly.

"Yeah. Yeah, but if I had never written in the first place, he might have not become famous. He might still be alive."

"If you say that again, I swear I will punch you."

Your eyes widen. Mary's tone is icy, and dead serious. "And if you feel guilty about not having done anything after his death to clear his name, why don't you accept an interview with that Langsdale Pike guy who keeps asking you for one?"

"No. No, I don't want to. I hate journalists. I'll never trust one."

"Who asked you to _trust_ him, John?"

"What would be the point, now? His name _is_ cleared anyway."

"But there are still many rumours. Your voice will be taken as Gospel's truth."

"That's stupid. I'm no Messiah. And Mary, I want a quiet life. I don't want to get involved with the press. And that Pike guy would see right through me if I accepted the interview."

"How do you mean?"

"Mary, we're officially married. We haven't even asked for a divorce yet. Do you think it'd be good for us, for Blake, if some journalist wrote something about my undying love for Sherlock Holmes?"

"You don't have to tell him about _that_."

"I don't know if I can talk about him without being obvious. That's why I turned down the guy from the 'we believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement who wanted me to do some kind of conference or something. I don't trust myself with this, and I think it is nobody's business. Lestrade did all there was to be done."

Mary lets go of your hand and turns to lie on her back again. She stares at the ceiling as you stare at her.

"Maybe you're right. But then don't you dare feel guilty about anything."

"I don't. Sorry, it's just the nightmare, I–"

"Are you happy, John?"

The interruption and most of all, the unexpected question, leaves you speechless. You swallow. Mary's eyes remain fixed on the ceiling.

"Can you find it in yourself to be happy about your son's birth, about us? I mean, the three of us?"

"Mary. I want you to listen very carefully. I... I know I'm tactless. Some things I have done or said must have been horrible for you and I probably never noticed, and never will. I... Perhaps it was horrible of me to propose in the first place. I don't know what went on in my mind at the time. I just... It just felt right. You were great. I was drunk and didn't think twice about it. I wanted to be with you."

"John, I wasn't–"

"Please let me finish. I... The next day, I thought what I'd done was crazy. I tried to think of other things, but I kept being obsessed by that ring I had promised to bring. It was silly, really. But I couldn't stop myself from going back to the pub. Then when I saw you, I just didn't want to tell you it had all been a terrible mistake, a misunderstanding. Because it didn't feel like it had been. At all. I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you deserve. I told you everything else was yours. But there's a part... The part that... I can't. I won't get over it. I don't want to get over it."

"I never asked–"

"I am happy that I met you. So terribly happy. I was incredibly lucky to meet you, to fall in love with you, and I am extremely lucky to have a child with you. I never deserved such happiness. I thought I would spend the rest of my life alone with a ghost, and that was fine, but you came along and gave me a family. I'll never regret what we had. I am so happy to have been with you and I want you to count on me anytime, for anything, until the very end. I've never been a good boyfriend to anyone, and I think I was a terrible husband – but I fully intend to be a good father, and the best friend you'll ever get. Come here, now."

Extending an arm, you pull her into a hug and can feel her grumbling against the crook of your neck.

"I wasn't having some fit of insecurity, y'know. I was just asking if you were as happy as I was that we had a son. A son, John! D'you realize?"

"I do. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I didn't."

"It's not that. It's just..."

She trails off. You know what she wants to say. It's that hole again, that void within you that sometimes seems to eat away everything else.

"It's part of me," you murmur against her hair. "It's how I am, but it will never prevent me from loving you and loving Blake."

You pause, then add quietly:

"I am happier than I ever thought I could be again."

* * *

><p><em>When Christmas carols fill every space<br>And I think of your hands upon my face _

* * *

><p>When you finally get up, Mary is still sleeping by your side on the sofa-bed. You smile. Silently you leave the living-room and walk down the corridor into Blake's room. You are surprised to find him awake.<p>

"Hello, there! I thought babies always cried and made a fuss when waking up, but there you are, just looking around."

A wave of unalloyed fondness washes over you as you pick up his son. Blake babbles happily.

"Shh. You'll wake up your mother."

Blake blinks. You like the colour of his eyes. They're bright blue, not dark like yours or clear like Sherlock's. _And why would he have Sherlock's eyes anyway?_ He slaps himself mentally. Twice.

"You're a great baby, you know." It doesn't seem strange to you to speak to a two month old, even though you always found parents who talked to their babies as if they were adults stupid. Now it feels only natural. And it's the right thing to do, too.

When Blake was born, you panicked – even more than Mary. You waited outside the room because she didn't want you there, and you thought you wouldn't be able to stay away until the end. But you managed and when the nurse came to tell you your son and wife were fine, you cried. Mary had never been so beautiful as she lay there exhausted, holding her baby, your child. You had never felt so lost and so happy at once.

_Really? Except..._

You frown. Startled, Blake tries to frown back, snapping you back to reality and making you laugh.

"Sorry, here I am, telling you to be quiet and day-dreaming while holding you. Maybe I will be a bad father, after all."

Blake babbles again.

"I know you can't understand what I'm saying, but you've got to start somewhere, right?"

Unsurprisingly, Blake doesn't answer.

"It's different," you say as if Blake could have heard your train of thoughts. "It's true there might be one moment when I felt... I don't know if I can say happier. It's different. But it doesn't matter, does it?"

_Yes, it matters. It's the kind of things that matters, that truly matters. _You smile.

"Once, a very good friend of mine came into my room at night because I had a nightmare. It was a very awkward person and he didn't know how to deal with such things. But he did his best and held my hand and stayed with me all night. It made me really happy."

Another babble, louder this time. Blake starts fidgeting in your arms.

"I wish you'll never have nightmares like that, my love," John says as he leans to kiss his son's brow. "But if you do, I hope you'll have such a friend to come and hold your hand, when your mother and I aren't around."

Blake pouts and begins to lick and smack his lips. You chuckle apologetically.

"Right. You're hungry, and daddy's just here spouting nonsense."

You kiss your son again before bringing him to Mary.

* * *

><p><em>When the trees come down<br>I'm sweeping needles up from the ground_

* * *

><p>Typing your latest post for the blog while Mary reads in the armchair in 221B is one of the things you enjoy doing the most during weekends. In the afternoon, while Blake is napping, you make some tea and spend time together in comfortable silence. Until one of you breaks it with some random comment.<p>

"You know, I think it was all calculated," you say.

"Sorry, what?"

"The first time I met Sherlock. Everything he did. I think it was already manipulation."

Mary stares.

"Sorry, Forget it."

"No, go on. Every time you suddenly say something out of the blue I can be sure it's about him anyway."

"I'm sorry."

"So? The first time you met?"

"He was in a lab at St Bart's. Mike brought me in. We were talking about the time when we were at school there, and I just lent Sherlock my mobile phone because he asked Mike his, but he didn't have it. I offered mine. He took it and asked: 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'"

"I know, you've told me all about it already."

You nod.

"But he didn't develop. He didn't even say his name, he didn't mention the address. This is _Sherlock_ we are talking about, he wouldn't have been so careless. He knew I would stop him from leaving the room. Just to be sure, he mentioned his _riding crop_ at the mortuary, so he knew, he knew I would be intrigued. He knew I would ask. He never intended to leave like that. Of course it worked, I did protest. And I pointed out the obvious: that we didn't know a thing about each other. He knew I would ask that. He'd prepared it all, for better effect. Just so he could recite everything he'd deduced about me already. He did, and then left, theatrically. It was all staged; great acting, though." John' brow suddenly clouds. "He always was, wasn't he?"

"Oh no, don't get depressed now."

"I'm not getting depressed!"

"Right. So you weren't just thinking about how he acted the day he jumped?"

You swallow.

"That wasn't a great piece of acting, though."

Mary gives a prudent nod.

"Anyway," you go on, "he already knew what he was doing. While he was deducing me he must have thought I was worth a try – that perhaps I would be the kind of flatmate he needed, one who'd put up with him."

"I think he was hitting on you."

You choke on your drink and look up at Mary with wide eyes.

"_What?"_

"Oh come on, John, he tried to razzle-dazzle you – and succeeded, incidentally – and he _winked_ at you. He mentioned the riding crop."

"Now I see it, yeah, the riding crop. I mention that to my every first dates. Perfect way to hit on someone, yeah."

Mary rolls her eyes.

"Then he went on, didn't he? He kept doing everything to catch your interest."

"Yeah, I suppose he did. He said he'd given a hand to Mrs. Hudson by ensuring her husband was executed, which would catch anyone's interest, really."

"Really?"

"Well, mine, anyway."

"Exactly."

"He wasn't hitting on me. I... When he thought _I_ was hitting on him, he was at a loss. He was embarrassed, and obviously felt awkward about it."

"He probably didn't realize it was love at first sight, then!"

"Now that's preposterous!" you burst out laughing. "Y'know, if theatrical means flirty, then _Mycroft_ was flirting with me a lot more than Sherlock."

"OK now that's disturbing."

"Exactly my point."

"What, is the idea of Sherlock flirting with you disturbing?"

"I heard him flirt with Moriarty and that was disturbing enough."

"Ha ha! I bet."

"But he's such a child, he doesn't know how to flirt. He reacted like a kid to Lestrade coming to him for the serial suicides. I mean it, he really looked like a kid."

"Mmm, I wonder what that says about you, then."

"What?"

"Falling in love with 'a kid'."

"...Right. Many adults act like brats, though. Sherlock was so... So proud, really. When I mentioned his website, I could tell he was expecting compliments, he really was happy about it. Then I made fun of him and he took offence. He got revenge by not answering my questions."

"Great. So your type is childish and sulky, huh?"

You grin. "Now I wonder what that says about _you_, then." Mary sticks her tongue at you, and you refrain from giving her a hug. Too many displays of affection could become awkward in your current situation. So instead, you resume: "The manipulation continued to some extent, but he was already himself, too. Infuriating. Bossy."

"But he cured your psychosomatic limp."

"Yes. And he tested me, just like Mycroft."

"Tested your patience, didn't he."

"That, he did."

You fall silent. "You should have told me, y'know," Mary says eventually.

"Told you what?"

"That you get off on being pushed around."

"I do _not_!"

"If you say so."

"_Mary_."

"_John_."

Your eyes lock and you both avert your gazes at the same time to break into quiet laughter.

"Why are we having this conversation again?"

"Because you were daydreaming about Sherlock and started rambling."

"Right."

You take another sip of tea.

"What about a song?" Mary asks.

"You mean with the guitar?"

She nods.

"You want me to sing?"

"I'd like to sing one with you."

"We'll wake up Blake."

"He's awake already. You can bring him here."

"But what do you want me to sing? I don't know any songs."

"There's one you know. The lullaby I've been singing to Blake."

"The Robert Louis Stevenson one?"

"Yup, that one!"

"Not sure I know all the lyrics."

"Just sing. I'll help you if you have a memory lapse."

"Fine."

And so while Mary goes to get her guitar, you go into the room to take your son in your arms.

"If I had known how engrossed in it you'd be, I would've never bought you that guitar," you say as you come back into the living-room.

"Yes, you would have."

You smirk. "All right, I would have."

Mary sits down on the sofa and plays a few notes. She smiles to herself in satisfaction, then looks up at you. You give her a nod. You don't like to sing, but you know she loves it when you do, and it is very hard not to indulge her. She begins to play the song as you rock Blake in your arms, standing by the window.

"My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky. It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by; for every night at teatime and before you take your seat, with lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street."

_If the brother has a green ladder..._

"Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea, and my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be; but I..."

You look at Mary. She snorts and continues in your stead: "...but I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do..." You roll your eyes and go on with her in unison: "O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you."

The scene is almost too perfect to be true. You like Mary's voice a lot; it is low and she doesn't sing especially well, but there's a nice ring to it. Through the window the sunlight is pouring over you. Blake looks a little dazzled, and, in your eyes, is definitely dazzling.

"For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, and Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; and oh! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, o Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight."

Your eyes catch Mary's and you finish together: "O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight."

Outside, it starts snowing.

* * *

><p><em>And I miss your kiss<br>On a Christmas night like this_

* * *

><p>Christmas has come and now both Mary and Blake are sound asleep. Wearing your new jumper – red – you are sitting alone near the fireplace, writing in your journal. Because you have started writing a journal.<p>

It is constructed as an echo to Sherlock's, really, and so it doesn't look like a journal at all. Every day, you put down in it remarks about what Sherlock has written in the Mathematics notebook from 1985 and 1986. Observations, hypotheses, anything. Sometimes, when you're just too tired, you simply complain and ramble about stupid cryptic mad geniuses.

But there are some things you have now understood, thanks to some research you've done on Google – and in libraries.

_Sherlock seems to have had a certain sense of humour – to some extent. For instance, his "Moral: don't forget" right under the d'Agapeyeff cipher can be interpreted as a rather ironic remark. It is to be noted that he doesn't appear to have tried to break the cipher himself – or at least no such attempts appear in his notebook. But since d'Agapeyeff, the one who created the cipher, later in his life confessed to have forgotten how he'd done it, it makes sense that the moral of the story would be: don't forget. Still, it still sounds like a funny comment to me. _

_Other than that, I've been looking up polyalphabetic substitution. But there is no way I am going to try to make a tabula recta with bloody ideograms instead of letters. What does he mean "Could be fun"?! Did Sherlock speak Chinese? I'll have to ask Mycroft._

… _Scratch that. I'm never asking Mycroft anything again._

_The last conversation we had was so strange. It's too bad, he might have been of some help to understand the quotes. I'm still not sure why Sherlock wrote them there, they seem out of place._

"You have beguiled me with a counterfeit  
>Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried,<br>Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn;"

_What does it mean? It seems unlikely that Sherlock would have written them in his notebook randomly, or just because he liked them as quotes. Surely it must have been referring to something specific. What is the "counterfeit" he is talking about here, I wonder? And then again:_

"'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost  
>In this which he accounts so clearly won."<p>

_So clearly won? So something Sherlock took for granted but then lost? I wonder if it has anything to do with that Victor Trevor guy, the one from the article. It seems they had been friends to some extent, but then they fell out. Or maybe not. Maybe he was just a client. I have no idea. And I'll probably never know._

You put down your pen and look at the fire burning in the hearth. The third quote is hovering at the periphery of your consciousness and you try to keep it at bay. But of course that makes you think about it, and so you fail to ignore it. _We reach. We grasp. And what is life in our hands at the end? _

Did Sherlock think of this before he jumped in front of the man whom he claimed to be his only friend? _A shadow. Or worse than a shadow – misery. _

In the end, death is something we must all face alone. Sherlock must have been scared before he jumped. He must have felt unbearably alone.

Averting your gaze from the fire, you close the notebook and your eyes.

* * *

><p><em>On a Christmas night like this <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	43. Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris

****A/N: **I bet you weren't expecting another chapter so soon! Well, I wasn't either... Reviewers are loved :D  
><strong>

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

_**Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris: **_"_when the sky becomes darker, you will be left alone" _i.e.: when the tough times come, you will be left alone. Part of a longer quote from Ovid,_ "As long as you are wealthy, you will count many friends; but when the sky becomes darker..." _

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XLII: <em>Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris<em>**

_The Hat, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>I knitted you a hat all blue and gold<br>To keep your ears warm from the Binghamton cold.  
>It was my first one and it was too small.<br>It didn't fit you at all, but you wore it just the same._

* * *

><p>"<strong>Feel the city breakin'<br>And ev'rybody shakin'  
>And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive<strong>

**Oh oh oh oh..."**

"I'm sorry, Shin, can you turn the radio off? Or change the channel."

"Yeah, of course. Don't like the song?"

Molly shrugged.

"Not very fond of it, no."

It was a morning habit of Shinwell's to listen to the radio while having coffee. Molly never minded it. She even liked to be awoken by the sound of the radio coming from her kitchen. It was the sign of another presence in her flat; the sign that she wasn't alone anymore.

It had been weeks since Shinwell had moved in. Months, perhaps. She began to count in her head.

She had seen his studio once and had found the place quite dreadful – so dreadful in fact she had suggested that he moved in with her at once. Well. She had been in love, too, of course. She craved the company. Shinwell had succeeded in convincing her that she deserved a bit of happiness and could, in fact, have some.

Molly brought her mug of tea to her lips with a smile. Shinwell was a lovely sight in the morning, dishevelled and not so well-shaven... His voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

"Why do you always use that awful mug, love? I've bought you one for Christmas!"

"Oh yes, right. Old habits die hard, I suppose."

"You don't like the one I gave you?"

"No, I do! I do, Shin."

She looked down at the mug in her hand. It was a random yellow mug with green polka-dots. It looked awful indeed. Sherlock had pointed it out after having used it for three days in a row without paying any attention to it, so engrossed had he been in his own thoughts. Then suddenly he'd said: "God Molly, this mug looks horrible, where did you find it?"

"I really do," Molly said as she wrapped her arms around her lover. "I love the mug you bought me."

She kissed his temple and went to put her ugly mug in the sink.

"You're still reading that book?" Shinwell asked, looking pointedly at _Three Months in the Jungle_ lying on the table.

"What? Oh. Yes. I'm trying."

"You've been trying for months."

"Yes, well... it is a bit off-putting."

"Where in the world did you find it?"

Molly froze for a second, then turned to Shinwell. "I've had it for a long time. Since my student days."

"The book?"

"The mug. Oh sorry, you were talking about the book, of course–"

"Your student days? So that's why you're so fond of that mug. I'm sorry, dear, of course you can use it, you don't have to use the one I–"

Molly pressed her lips to his to silence him. She was rather proud of herself; she thought she had become quite bold since she last tried to flirt with someone seriously. That someone being Sherlock. It was bound to fail anyway, there was nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with her; just that she'd always liked the wrong type of guys, that's all.

"Do you have to go to work, today?" Shinwell asked her as he pressed a trail of kisses down her neck.

"You know I do. We can have lunch together, though, if you'd like."

He pouted. Molly smiled gently and stepped away. She wondered how she could have found Shinwell nondescript when she had first met him with Meena in that bar. Just a brown-haired stranger. Funny how life turned out, sometimes.

"What are you staring at? Taking me for a prey or something? You've been reading that hunter's book too much, methinks."

Molly slipped away before he could pull her into a hug again and picked up her bag as she walked to the door.

"Well, I'll see you at noon then."

"What, you're going already?"

"Unlike you, I've already showered and in case you hadn't noticed, I'm dressed. Work starts at 9 today, gotta rush."

"But... You haven't even put on lipstick yet!" he said with mock despair, obviously trying to find something – anything – to hold her back a little.

Molly gave him a strange look.

"No, I didn't. Do you think my mouth is too small?"

Shinwell blinked.

"What? No! Where did that come from? I love your mouth. Your mouth is perfect."

Molly grinned.

"Good. See you for lunch then."

"What would you like to eat?"

"Quavers crisps!" Molly shouted back before she closed the door behind her.

Alone in the kitchen, Shinwell arched an eyebrow.

"Quavers crisps?"

* * *

><p><em>I remember the first time we danced.<br>I remember tunnelling through the snow like ants.  
>What I don't recall is why I said,<br>"I simply can't sleep in this tiny bed with you anymore."_

* * *

><p>"For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."<p>

You always say such horrible things. Always. Why is it you're so cruel? Do you really not realize it, are you truly insensible? Or do you know people care, but you still can't bring yourself to care? You keep doing so much damage.

_I'm sorry Molly. I hope you get better. Please don't write any more. - John_

"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

That woman. Who was that woman? So silly, really. You couldn't possibly have slept with her. But even John seemed worried. He counted the texts you received from her. I would have gone mad if I'd been in his place. But then again he wasn't being very fair either. A man who counted the exact number of texts _you_ received from a woman but could hardly remember a thing about the ones he dated. You were so spoiled, always so spoiled. Did you ever realize? How much you were loved.

"Would you like to have coffee?"

"Black, with two sugars?"

I wish you could have seen him. It must be terribly hard on you too, of course. I wish I could see how _you_ are doing.

And there are these red apples too... Red apples everywhere... Hydrogen cyanide... Potassium cyanide... She could've died... John could've died... Who...

"Sherlock is dead. There's no reason anyone would want to target us. Maybe I'm just imagining things and panicking for nothing, but... You know. Old habits die hard."

They do. Don't they?

"He's not dead, is he? You examined him, surely he faked it, this is..."

Couldn't nod. Had to shake my head. See him fall. I didn't think you could break a man other than John, but you could.

"He can't... It's not..."

"I'm sorry, Greg. His brother took him to be buried just an hour ago. I'm sorry."

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

"Molly, this is Greg. It's about John."

Suicide? What do you mean suicide? Is he...?

"Mycroft said we shouldn't go see him."

No, of course not. Why would we be honest with ourselves after all? Why should we tell the truth about everything, least of all our feelings?

Oh God why do we have to hide and lie all the time?

Is this how you felt?

I wonder when your hell truly started... When did you understand? When did you know you'd have to go? When did you start lying to everyone? To...

"You _do_ count. You've _always_ counted and I've always trusted you."

Define "count". I've been counting. Too long. It's been too long.

"But you _were_ right. I'm not OK."

Fear. I can't tell if it's yours or mine. I'm scared. Perhaps you're scared too. Or maybe you're just acting.

No. You wouldn't, would you? Not for this. Not for...

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

Why didn't you tell John? Until the end you only treated us like pawns. You didn't tell me because I cared. You didn't tell me because _you_ cared, God forbid! No. You told me because I could be useful to you.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that _I_ think I am – would you still want to help me?"

You must have been scared. Surely, you did feel fear. Doubt. I would have done anything for you, and I thought you knew. I realized you didn't. That's why I told you. You looked so sad... You were so good at hiding it from him. Life is unfair, but you were even more unfair than life.

"I need you."

I need...

"SHERLOCK!"

Molly woke up with a start. _Molly, I think I'm going to die. _

_...I think I'm going to die._

_...going to die._

_...to die..._

_SHERLOCK!_

"Darling? Are you awake?"

"Hey," Molly answered in a shaky voice.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

She was trembling. Rattled, she nuzzled up to her boyfriend.

"I know he lied," she murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing. Nightmare."

Shinwell stroked her hair soothingly.

"What did you dream about?"

Molly's eyes fell on her dressing gown hanging on a stand behind her bedroom door. Next to it there was a scarf. One couldn't see the colour in the dark, and it appeared to be grey; but Molly knew it was blue.

"I dreamed that someone died."

"Oh love."

Shinwell pulled her into an embrace. Molly did not fall back to sleep.

* * *

><p><em>I should tell you that you were my first love.<br>So it's Christmas time, it's been three years.  
>And someone else is knitting things for your ears.<em>

* * *

><p>She knew she had been taking more coffees than strictly necessary lately. She knew, and yet here she was again, in front of the coffee machine, trying to make up her mind between an espresso and a double espresso.<p>

"Hello Molly! Haven't seen you around a lot lately."

"Mike! How have you been doing?"

"Good, I'm good. Can I offer you something?"

"I was going to have coffee, but–"

"Here, let me."

"Thank you."

Once they both had their drinks in hand, they sat down on the plastic bench next to the machine and fell silent.

"So, John told me you're living with someone now?"

Molly couldn't repress a blush. "Yes. And it's going well."

"Good, that's wonderful. I'm really glad you could... Well, you know... After... Well."

They fell silent again.

"And John, too," Mike went on, apparently getting more and more embarrassed as the awkward quietness stretched on, and keen to say something. "His wife is lovely. I know they're planning on getting a divorce, but..."

A divorce. That's true. When? Would they really?

"...but they were made for each other, don't you think?"

"What? Oh, yes."

Would John still be married when Sherlock came back?

…Would Sherlock come back?

"I don't really understand this whole divorce thing, they've got a kid, they look sickeningly happy together and..."

They do. They look very happy together. Mary Morstan was Godsend for John. Or maybe it was the other way around.

"...but it seems they've made up their mind about it, so what can we do? Have you seen the baby?"

"Blake? Yes just once. He's adorable, isn't he? He looks like his..."

"...father."

"...mother."

They looked at each other and broke into laughter.

"Oh well, they both participated in the conception, so I guess he's got a bit of each."

John was a father now. He had a full-time job, responsibilities. A wife, even if they got a divorce – the mother of his child. How could Sherlock possibly cope with this? Would he... would he run away from it all, just...

"It's funny, I never imagined John with a child. God, I never imagined him married!"

...remain dead?

"Yes, well, things happen."

"That, they do. What about you? Are you planning to...?"

"What?! Oh, no!" She turned crimson. "I mean, I don't know, we haven't..."

"Ha ha! Sorry, I shouldn't have asked. I was just wondering but it's none of my business."

None of his business. Would he think that? Now John had found his happiness. He was finally doing – somewhat – better. So Sherlock should not interfere with his life anymore. God, would he think that?

"Maybe it's better if they get a divorce."

"Sorry, what?"

"I mean..." She fumbled, and tried not to sound too flustered. "I mean, for the child. You know, when parents don't get along, it's not a good environment." _What am I saying?_

Mike looked at her strangely. "But they do get along, though."

"Right. Of course!" She let out a nervous laugh. _He'll think I'm crazy_. "It's just... you know, if they think it's for the best, surely they've got good reasons and it's better that way."

"Yeah. Yeah, naturally."

They fell quiet. Again.

Did Sherlock still feel anything about John, at all? It was likely that distance had exacerbated his feelings – that's what normally happens, but then this was _Sherlock_, so who knew? Maybe he no longer cared.

No. No, of course he cared.

"I wonder how Sherlock would have dealt with that! John getting married and having a kid."

"Well. It would have been a problem for the rent."

Mike stared. Molly slapped herself mentally.

"He would have reacted like a kid, surely."

"I bet he would have! Sulking..."

Molly felt a shiver run down her spine. She highly doubted Sherlock was still capable of such things. As sulking. As... acting like a child. At least an innocent, oblivious child. She knew it was for Sherlock's safety, but she wished Mycroft could have told her more when she had gone to see him. She desperately wished she knew how he was doing, how he was _really_ doing.

"I don't think John could have managed to get a sentimental life – not to mention _getting married_ and _having a child_ – when Sherlock was still around," Mike said.

He saw Molly's look and added pre-emptively: "I'm not saying it's a good thing! God help me, I miss him. And I'm sure I'm not the only one. London has lost one of its greatest men."

Molly smiled gently.

John could never have married anyone when Sherlock was still 'alive'. Obviously, because Sherlock had been enough. John had been content.

Well, except for the sex. Hence the girlfriends.

Molly froze, holding her paper cup in mid-air.

"Are you all right?"

"What? Oh, yes. Sorry, I'm a bit out of it today."

"No problem."

Right. There was that, too. John's sexuality. Molly had a feeling that John's infatuation with Sherlock, which he now seemed to be more willing to admit, had a lot to do with the whole divorce plan.

She considered the situation for a second, and had to repress a groan.

Well. Everything was so convoluted. And Molly thought that perhaps, in Sherlock's place, she would run too.

* * *

><p><em>I have come to learn I'll only see you interrupting my dreams at night<br>And that's alright. And that's alright. And that's alright. And that's alright._

* * *

><p>"I'm exhausted!" Shinwell exclaimed as he dropped into the sofa, making Toby jump on the armchair. Molly came into the living-room with a cup of tea in hand and a smile on her face.<p>

"Bad day, was it?"

"You have no idea. Hey, you're all dressed up! Are you going somewhere?"

"Well... _we_ are going somewhere. We're having dinner with John and Mary, remember?"

Shinwell groaned. "No, I had forgotten all about it."

"I'm sorry, if you don't feel well, would you like me to–"

"No no no, I'll be ready in a minute."

She pushed him a bit so she could sit next to him on the sofa and leant in for a kiss.

"We have more time than that. We're not expected before 7."

"Good," he grumbled, pulling her down into a hug and kiss. Molly giggled.

"Stop it! You'll make me spill tea everywhere!"

"Damn the tea."

Molly felt a little awkward as she kissed her boyfriend back, and she couldn't say why. Something with the sofa... She blushed. _Oh God_.

"Something troubling you?"

"No. Why?"

"Your head is in the clouds lately."

"Is it?"

She kissed him again. Staying alive had been boring for Jim. What if Sherlock found it boring too, now that he didn't have any cases, and didn't have any people to protect? What if...

What if he'd already found it so boring that he...

They were interrupted by Molly's phone beeping.

"Let me take that."

"But it's a message."

"Yes, but it could be important."

"More important than me?"

"Nothing's more important than you," Molly countered as she stood up to take her phone. Shinwell pouted.

"It's John", she said.

"What is he saying? Are they cancelling?"

Molly gave him a not very convincing glare.

"No. It seems Mary invited people over tonight as well, so he asks if it bothers us if we're a bigger party than expected."

"What people?"

"Seb and Ron. You've already met Seb, I think. At the house-warming party."

Shinwell's expression darkened noticeably.

"Dear, what's wrong?" Molly asked worriedly.

"Nothing. Sorry. It's fine, of course."

"You sure? I can still cancel if you–"

"I said it's fine," he insisted, pressing a kiss to her brow as he walked past her and down the corridor to the room.

"I'll just have a shower and be ready!"

"Take your time."

Molly fell back on the sofa and welcomed Toby in her arms gratefully.

Jim had been a psychopath, or so they said. Many had said the same about Sherlock, and Molly highly doubted _that_. But it remained that both men were very similar in some ways.

Dreaming about Sherlock the previous night must have set her on edge, she thought. She didn't dream about him that often – actually, she didn't dream very often. Yet it had all felt so real. She could almost hear his voice, even now.

_Molly, I think I'm going to die_.

Sherlock must have seriously entertained the possibility at the time. Thought that it was possible that he would die, for real.

She shivered. Hearing his voice saying this now sounded ominous, too ominous for her. She didn't like it. It would be horrible, just horrible if Sherlock truly died after all he'd gone through to...

To what? What did he really want?

_I wonder if he really got blue hair afterwards_, she muses, trying to dispel her sense of dread. That would have been a sight. She chuckled.

Yes, it was all right. Surely he was all right.

* * *

><p><em>I should tell you that you were my first love.<br>And it's alright. And it's alright. And it's alright._

* * *

><p>"Mary this is delicious!"<p>

"It is, isn't it? John cooked."

Seb almost choked on his food. "What? Seriously?"

"It's not because _you_ don't do a thing that other people don't have talents," Ron said.

Sebastian glared at him.

"I do have talents!"

"Boys," John warned half-jokingly.

"Really?"

"Well, I'm good at whist, for one thing!"

"And?" Ron pressed on with a smirk.

"Shinwell would you like second servings?" Mary offered kindly, ignoring her husband her guests.

"Sure. It's delicious."

"I didn't know you could cook, John," Molly commented.

"The recipe is Angelo's."

"Who?" Molly asked.

"A friend who's got a restaurant."

"...and I can hunt, too!"

"Oh yeah, that's very useful," Ron replied with a smirk. "Sebastian Moran the Hunter! Perhaps you could hunt down some game next time for dinner? Please don't break into the zoo, though..."

"Oh shut up, I can hunt regular British game too, you idiot."

"So you hunt?" John asked, surprise in his voice. "I had no idea."

Molly felt Shinwell tense next to her and glanced at him with confusion.

"Yeah. I hunt," Sebastian answered with a smile. Shinwell's eyes were fixed on him.

"Shin, are you all right?"

"Mm? Yeah, of course."

"Do you not like hunting, Mr. Johnson?" Sebastian asked. Shinwell smiled stiffly.

"Not really. But Molly does. Don't you, love?"

"What?! _Me_?"

Everyone around the table seemed as puzzled as her.

"Why, yes, dear. Didn't you realize that you're in the presence of your favourite author?"

"My wha–"

Molly blinked. _Sebastian Moran_.

"Colonel Sebastian 're Colonel Sebastian Moran," she said as realization hit her.

"God, are you a _colonel_?" Mary asked.

"Don't say it like that! Sounds like you can't believe it."

"_I_ can hardly believe it," John put in.

"Oh shut up, _Captain_. You'd actually have to answer to _me_ if we were on the front."

"Well thank God we're not."

"Really? Sure you wouldn't enjoy it?"

"Seb, are you seriously flirting with my husband?" Mary cut in.

"Well, aren't you getting a divorce?" Sebastian countered provocatively.

"Oh so you're just going to jump on him the moment he's free, huh?" Mary said with a wide grin.

"Right. Why are we even discussing this again?" John interrupted.

"I've read your book," Molly said, trying to change the subject as well.

"Oh? Which one?"

For some reason, John blushed. Molly, knowing all about the symptoms, construed that Sebastian Moran must have sounded a bit like Sherlock, or reminded John of Sherlock in some way. She looked at the man more closely. He did have something of Sherlock. The hair, perhaps? But he didn't have curls. The face was quite different. The expressions, then?

"Molly?" Shinwell whispered, snapping her back to the conversation.

"Oh. Sorry. I've been daydreaming a lot, lately. What did you say?"

"I asked you which book of mine you've read," Sebastian replied pleasantly.

"Three months in the jungle."

"You spent three months in the jungle?!" John asked, befuddled.

"Impressed?" Seb retorted. John rolled his eyes.

"You're mad."

"So, did you like it?"

"What?" said Molly. "Oh. Yes. Well. I've never personally hunted, but..."

"Why did you buy such a book in the first place?" Mary laughed. "Planning on going on a trip to the jungle?"

"Oh no, that's not my cup of tea. Someone just... gave it to me."

They all stared at her. Molly wished she could disappear. She was saved by Blake, who started crying in the bedroom.

"I'll go," Mary said, standing up. "It's because you're all so noisy!"

"No, it's because he's hungry," John corrected, giving her a look. She stuck out her tongue at him and left the room.

"Isn't she too old to do that?" Seb asked.

"Do what? Be a mother?" John protested.

"No, you idiot. Stick her tongue at people."

"Oh. That. She's always done that."

"Either way, she's not old," Molly said. "A woman's life expectancy in England is 82.4 year old."

Again, they all stared at her. She closed her eyes and flushed.

"OK, I'll just... shut up, yes."

"No, no, that's fine," John said. Molly smiled. He must have been used to her weirdness by now. Plus, he'd shared a flat with Sherlock. He must've seen worse.

"By the way, John, I'm finally done reading all of your blog," Seb said. "It's brilliant stuff!"

"Yeah, well, Sherlock was brilliant."

"No, I mean, the _adventures_!"

"Now look who's the kid," Ron remarked casually.

"Seriously, I've become a fan!"

"Too bad the idol's gone now," John replied a little grimly.

"Oh no, don't get depressed," Sebastian moaned. "I was just going to ask if you wouldn't bring me on a tour, show me the places you've been to. It'd be so exciting!"

"On a tour?! What the hell..." John mumbled.

"Well I can show you the mortuary," Molly offered. There was an awkward silence. Shinwell chuckled and kissed her.

"I love you."

"What? Why? What did I say?"

"Nothing, love."

"Well I can't exactly bring you to Buckingham palace, if that's what you have in mind," John answered with good humour. "And there's no way I'm going back to Dartmoor."

"Aw come on, I only meant London, mate."

They spent the rest of the evening pleasantly, discussing one thing and another. Ron and Seb taught Shinwell and John how to play whist, while Mary and Molly talked by the fireplace.

"Thank you for inviting us tonight," Molly said, turning her cup of herbal tea in her hands absent-mindedly, thinking of a yellow mug with green polka-dots.

"It's our pleasure, really. I've been wishing to see you more, but with the baby..."

"Oh I understand! I mean obviously I don't because, I don't have one, but..."

"Do you want one?"

Molly stopped turning the cup. "I... I don't know. I guess I really should start thinking about it, shouldn't I?"

"Well, you don't _have _to, no."

They fell silent, but for some reason it was a comfortable kind of silence.

"Is John doing... well?" Molly inquired eventually.

Mary looked at her with surprise. "He's fine, yes. As fine as usual anyway. He spent hours researching bees today because he found the word 'apoidea' in Sherlock's notebook and realized he hadn't had time to look it up before. Nothing out of the usual, an ordinary Saturday as they go."

They broke into laughter.

"Did you know that the main difference between bees and wasps is that bees provide their babies with a mixture of pollen and honey, and wasps give them insects or spiders? Well I didn't, and I would have been fine _not_ knowing."

"Mary, what are you telling Molly about me?"

"Nothing, _darling_. Just keep playing cards, won't you?"

"Why don't _you_ play, then?"

"Because I am entertaining Miss Hooper here," Mary replied in a mock haughty tone.

Suddenly Molly stood up.

"What's this?"

They all turned to her as she stood up and walked closer to the fireplace. There was an envelope above it, placed right next to the skull.

"It has my name on it," she said.

Shinwell stood up and was by her side at once.

"I have no idea," Mary said. "John?"

"No. Don't touch it, Molly. I didn't put it there either."

"But it's just an envelope," she noted.

"Yes but why would there be an envelope for _you_ in my flat?" John inquired. "No offence."

"Who came here today?"

"No one."

They all exchanged nervous glances, except Molly, who recognized the handwriting. She took the envelope.

"Molly, don't!" Shinwell exclaimed.

"Don't worry, I know who this is from," she announced. It was unmistakable. That handwriting. It was the exact same one Sherlock had mimicked on the back of Mycroft's name card for her, years ago. It was the handwriting of Mycroft in his teenage years.

_Dear Miss Hooper,_

_I would love to have the pleasure to see you again some time. If you do come to visit at the Diogenes, the name card you used last time won't be necessary. You will be welcomed._

_My kindest regards to Mr. Johnson, the Watsons, and their two other guests. _

_M.H._

* * *

><p><em>We were seventeen again together.<em>

_And it's alright._

* * *

><p>"You didn't have to contact me in such a way. John was furious."<p>

"I'm sure he was," Mycroft replied in a honeyed tone.

Molly sat in the same chair she had used the first time she had come to this office, and felt a lot more embarrassed. Probably the hair, she thought. She hadn't dyed it blond this time.

"Why did you put the note there, Mr. Holmes?"

"I have my reasons," Mycroft drawled. Molly could have slapped him. Well, not really. No. Definitely not. Still, she found his superior attitude much more annoying than Sherlock's, because Mycroft was clearly quite aware of it, and did not share Sherlock's refreshing obliviousness.

"I know I am nothing like my brother, Miss Hooper, and I thank God for that. Now shall we move on to proper business?"

Molly blushed but forced herself to keep her composure.

"I'm listening," she said.

"Here," Mycroft told her as he handed her a piece of paper. "Read this."

Molly looked down and read: _The Three Sillies_. She blinked.

"What is this?"

"A fairy tale."

"A _fairy tale_?"

Mycroft did not bother answering and just waited for her to read. So Molly did. Once she was done, however, she was more lost than ever.

"What does this mean?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"I don't understand. Where did you find this? Why–"

"I think Sherlock read this. According to my sources, it was one of the first messages Moriarty left him."

"Moriarty? But he's–"

"Dead, yes. Obviously he left the letters before he died for someone to make sure Sherlock would read them, but that is not the point."

"Oh. So what's the point?"

Mycroft, who had been pacing the room in circles around Molly, sat back across from her.

"At the end of the fairy tale, the protagonist goes home and marries the farmer's daughter, since everybody else in the world was as silly as they were," he said. "Miss Hooper. Do you think Sherlock will come back?"

Molly gave him a pained, angry look.

"How should I know? I don't know where he is. I don't know how he's doing, _what_ he's doing, I... I know nothing. But you must know. Why did you call me here, Mr. Holmes?"

"Once," Mycroft went on, apparently ignoring her, "he asked me if I thought there was something wrong with us."

"Wrong?" Molly asked, puzzled.

"Because, he said, we did not care. People care so much, but we do not."

Molly did not know what to say.

"Well, now we know he wasn't exactly being honest, don't we?"

Molly still remained quiet, her eyes fixed on the elder Holmes.

"Where is Sherlock?" she asked.

Mycroft looked back at her.

"It is better, for your safety and for his, that I do not tell you this piece of information."

"Then what can you tell me? Is he all right? Is he coming back soon?"

"He's not all right, but he'll manage. And I'm afraid he will have to come back, whether he wants it or not."

"Are you going to _force_ him?"

"Force him? No. I won't do anything. But other people... Well. Let's just say the end of the tale is approaching. Everything must have been set. But I don't know how much has been written."

Now Molly had really no clue about what he Mycroft was trying to say.

"What are you talking about?"

"The end, Miss Hooper. The return of the hero. But the thing is, he's not alone."

"Of course not. We're here."

Mycroft gave her a look. "That is not exactly what I meant."

"Then what do you mean? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Do you remember that woman Sherlock recognized from... 'not her face', as you put it?"

Molly paled slightly.

"Yes."

"She is not dead."

Molly's eyes widened.

"What? But..."

"I believed that she was, too. For a long time. But she isn't. Sherlock helped her."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"She's one of the characters, you see. She's part of the tale as well."

"Is Sherlock with her now?"

"Possibly. But most likely not."

Molly let out a sigh she didn't know she was holding.

"I am worried, Miss Hooper. I think Sherlock will have to face the end alone."

"The end of _what_?"

"Of the hell Moriarty set for him," Mycroft answered sternly.

Molly closed her eyes.

"Listen, Mr. Holmes. I do not know the part you played in Sherlock's... death. But a few days before he died, I... We were in the lab together. John was there, too. Sherlock was working on that case with the children of the ambassador. He..."

She averted her gaze and clenched her fists on her thighs.

"He looked sad, Mr. Holmes. So terribly sad. My father, when he was dying, he... he was always cheerful. But when no one could see him, he looked sad. I saw him once. Sherlock had the same look on his face. He looked sad... when he thought John couldn't see him."

"Miss Hooper..."

"No, please listen. I... I never counted for him. The night he came to me for help, he came... because he needed me. He was frightened, he was having doubts, about himself, about his life... He was terrified. And he was all alone. This was something he could not share with John, with the one person he must have most wanted to share it. I know he lied to me when he said I had always counted, and that he had always trusted me."

Her voice broke.

"I think you're wrong," Mycroft remarked quietly.

"Please. Let me finish. He... He asked me that night. He asked me: 'if I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that _I_ think I am – would you still want to help me?'"

Mycroft's eyes widened slightly at this. Molly's blurred and she had to close them.

"He must come back," she murmured shakily. "He must come back to John. His home is here, Mr. Holmes."

"I know," Mycroft declared. "And this is why I have asked you to come."

Molly took a deep breath and opened her eyes again.

"What can I do?"

"When he comes back – and he will come back – do you think you could... talk to John, perhaps? Tell him about... how Sherlock was before he left. Things he told you about him, maybe. Did he leave you any instructions?"

"He did."

"Perfect. Then tell him about that, too. Show him anything to... well. Anything that could testify to Sherlock's attachment to him."

"But why would that be necessary? Sherlock jumped from a rooftop to save his life, Mr. Holmes."

"And Lestrade's, and Mrs. Hudson's. John must understand how special he is."

Molly nodded slowly.

"I am sorry you've had to go through all this," Mycroft said as he stood up, signifying the end of the conversation.

"Through what?"

The elder Holmes extended his hand to her and gave her a pointed look.

"It must be difficult for you to lie to everyone about this. I wanted to express my gratitude, Miss Hooper. I'm afraid I did not thank you enough the first time we met."

Flabbergasted, Molly simply stood there without a word. Mycroft Holmes was very imposing, and impressing enough when he was being his haughty self; but when he was being _sympathetic_, he was truly terrifying.

"Please just ensure he comes back," she replied softly.

Mycroft nodded. Molly stopped at the door and turned back.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Did your leaving the letter at John's flat have anything to do with Sebastian Moran's presence there?"

Mycroft smiled secretively.

* * *

><p><em>I should tell you that you were my first love.<br>We were seventeen again._

* * *

><p>"Hi, Greg? I'm sorry it's a bit late. This is Molly."<p>

"Hey, Molly. It's been a while. Is everything all right?"

"I..." She held her phone away and let out a sob. "I think I need to have a drink." She paused, trying to suppress the tremor in her voice. She failed. "We used to be closer, a bit, do you remember when we spent Christmas together at Sherlock's? Well I was prettier then, with that fancy dress that didn't truly fit me and my hair done and all the make-up, it was silly, I was trying so hard to catch his attention..."

"Molly, where are you?"

"Pall Mall," she said before bursting into tears.

Half an hour later she was sitting at a pub table with Greg, crying and apologizing profusely.

"I'm so sorry to bother you like this. I don't know what's got into me, I just..."

"It's all right. It happens."

"Does it? Does it happen?"

"Yes," Lestrade assured her, taking her hand on the table. "Calm down. You can cry if you want. _I _cried. John must have cried. Maybe not Mycroft, but then again he's barely human..."

Molly let out a broken chuckle.

"Is that what you were doing at Pall Mall? Seeing him?"

She nodded. "But it's not him... It's not because of him that I... Oh I'm being ridiculous."

She ordered another drink, and noticed Lestrade was wise enough not to stop her.

"He called me John, you know," she said, feeling a bit drunk already, fighting back off the tears. "There was only John for him. I couldn't even remember his name at the beginning – John's, I mean – but Sherlock, he only saw John, he saw John everywhere, every other person was John to him... Oh I'm pathetic I'm talking nonsense..."

"It's all right. It's all right, Molly."

"I just wish... I just wish he were here. I want him to be here. He should've told John, he..."

"Shh. It's fine. It's all fine."

"No it's not! They were... They should have... Oh this is so frustrating."

"But you, I thought you..."

She dried her tears with a handkerchief and drank again. "Oh, I did. I did. But he called me John!" She giggled helplessly. "What could I do? I tried hard enough. Not giving up would have been too humiliating at one point."

Greg nodded kindly. "But you know, he must have cared about you quite a lot. He knew your full name, at least."

Molly blinked.

"Didn't he know yours?"

"Nope."

They stared at each other for a second, then broke into chuckles. Molly pressed her handkerchief to her eyes again.

_Well, perhaps he didn't know your full name, but you got a sniper. I didn't get any. I was the way out._

"Do you want to go home?" Greg asked.

Molly shook her head.

_You'd better come back, Sherlock Holmes. Come back where you belong_.

_...come back to John Watson. _

She ordered another drink.

* * *

><p><em>Together.<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	44. Aura popularis

****A/N: Ten more chapters to go before the end of this story – nine after this one. It does feel like the countdown has begun :) More than ever, reviewers are loved! ****

The fairy tale "The Master and his Pupil" was written by Joseph Jacobs in his _English fairy tales. _  
>The poem Moran quotes is "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley.<p>

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

_**Aura popularis: **_"_the popular breeze" (Cicero) i.e. "the (fickle) favour of the crowd"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XLIII : Aura popularis<strong>

_Breakable, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts?<br>Just a cage of rib bones and other various parts._

* * *

><p><em>Say, Sherlock. D'you wish you had been the one?<em>

_What?_

_Do you wish you had married John when you still had the chance? It's done, nowadays. Boyfriends can marry each other._

_John Watson was just my flatmate and colleague. We were never boyfriends._

_Don't you wish you had been?_

_No. That would have been dull._

_Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one. _

_Do you wish you could've had him before you left? _

_Your only three friends in the world will die... Unless... _

_What have you done to your mind? _

_Friends protect people. _

_Soul? You think you still have one? _

_No... please... stop this... please... AAAAAAAAAAAH! _

_Should I make him scream for you again, Sherlock? _

_No... please... Sherlock... Sherlock! AAAAAAAAAAAAH! _

_Are you going to be able to touch him with those hands?_

_Let me come through, please. No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please. _

_Don't you wish you had held him just once? _

_Why should I ever want to touch him again?_

_I know you're for real. _

Sherlock had stopped gasping when he woke up. However, he still retched. Running a hand through his hair, he let out a shaky sigh.

Damn Mycroft. _Damn_ him.

Quietly, Sherlock stood up from the armchair in which he'd fallen asleep, and walked to the window. He craved a cigarette. _Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what. _

"Shut up!"

His hand twitched and he turned away from the window. He started pacing the room. It was empty and silent. It always was when Moran wasn't around.

Sherlock's brow clouded and he clenched his fist unwittingly. There was nothing he could do about it. He needed Sebastian to do something, and he himself had something else to do, so he couldn't keep an eye on him. But this was the last time. Or almost. It was nearly over anyway. Soon, he would be done with this. The end was approaching.

_Do you know what life is about, Sherlock? Life is about dying._

_You must come back to London._

"Shut up! You too, all of you! God, I'm going mad..."

Where was Sebastian when he needed him? _Needed him. _Sherlock snorted. Moran had the cigarettes, that's all. And there was no chance he could go buy any at this hour.

He could have killed Mycroft in this instant.

_Killed? Really?_

Sherlock fell back into the armchair limply. He could kill Moran. Perhaps he should. Sherlock hated riddles. Now he hated Moriarty more than he ever had. Sebastian Moran was the worst riddle of all.

Sherlock couldn't quite believe his brother had truly come to see him. It would have been hilarious in any other situation. Mycroft Holmes, the one and only, the _Iceman_...

_The damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle... and watch him dance.  
>I drove you into her path. I'm sorry. I didn't know. <em>

And that man, that _very same man_, had come not to apologize, not to chide him, no, but to give him a lesson in life and to tell him he should remember _what truly mattered_? Namely, _a person?_ The person one wanted the most to spend one's life with, until it ended.

It was a joke. A bad one, but a joke nonetheless.

_"John will die. You will die. And when you do, you will never be able to see him again."_

_"So what, Mycroft? Have you come to tell me that we all die? Why, thank you, I think I had–"_

_"NO! No, you haven't realized, Sherlock, you don't realize it at all!"_

Insulting. His brother had often been insufferable, patronizing, disgustingly curious and meddling; sometimes he'd been mocking, and even, contemptuous. It had happened – usually when he was very angry with Sherlock for some reason, when he'd worried the most for him. A small smirk floated on Sherlock's lips. Mycroft could be obvious, too. He'd been obvious to Jim.

It was almost funny the way Mycroft dared give him lessons about _not_ caring when Sherlock was so clearly the person he only ever cared about. Sherlock had always wondered why Mycroft hadn't been closer to their mother; then he'd realized it wasn't _family_ that mattered to his brother. It was just him. And yet they weren't even close.

_But we understand each other_.

Perhaps that was it. People needed someone to know, to truly know them, somewhere in the world. Even if it was only one person. It was silly, but then again people _were_ silly. They did silly things. They thought silly things – when they bothered to think, which was rarely the case.

But Mycroft did think, and so did Sherlock.

And so Mycroft knew. Of course he would have known that Sherlock did not intend to go back to London. What was beyond Sherlock's comprehension, however, was the reason his brother deemed it worth to make the trip to Washington to break him down to pieces.

Sherlock groaned and gave up on going back to sleep. It wasn't even a good way to rest. But how could he rest anyway? There were still some things to be done. And after that...

He turned on the light and his eyes fell on the letter Moran must have left for him to find before he left. Another of Jim's letters. _Another fairy tale_. Sherlock reached towards it mechanically and grabbed it, intending to crumple it and throw it away. But his eyes fell on a few words, "_a foolish lad_", and before he knew it he found himself reading the tale again.

**The Master and His Pupil**

_**THERE**_ _was once a very learned man in the north-country who knew all the languages under the sun, and who was acquainted with all the mysteries of creation. He had one big book bound in black calf and clasped with iron, and with iron corners, and chained to a table which was made fast to the floor; and when he read out of this book, he unlocked it with an iron key, and none but he read from it, for it contained all the secrets of the spiritual world. It told how many angels there were in heaven, and how they marched in their ranks, and sang in their quires, and what were their several functions, and what was the name of each great angel of might. And it told of the demons, how many of them there were, and what were their several powers, and their labours, and their names, and how they might be summoned, and how tasks might be imposed on them, and how they might be chained to be as slaves to man._

_Now the master had a pupil who was but a foolish lad, and he acted as servant to the great master, but never was he suffered to look into the black book, hardly to enter the private room._

_One day the master was out, and then the lad, as curious as could be, hurried to the chamber where his master kept his wondrous apparatus for changing copper into gold, and lead into silver, and where was his mirror in which he could see all that was passing in the world, and where was the shell which when held to the ear whispered all the words that were being spoken by anyone the master desired to know about. The lad tried in vain with the crucibles to turn copper and lead into gold and silver-he looked long and vainly into the mirror; smoke and clouds passed over it, but he saw nothing plain, and the shell to his ear produced only indistinct murmurings, like the breaking of distant seas on an unknown shore. "I can do nothing," he said; "as I don't know the right words to utter, and they are locked up in yon book."_

_He looked round, and, see! the book was unfastened; the master had forgotten to lock it before he went out. The boy rushed to it, and unclosed the volume. It was written with red and black ink, and much of it he could not understand; but he put his finger on a line and spelled it through._

_At once the room was darkened, and the house trembled; a clap of thunder rolled through the passage and the old room, and there stood before him a horrible, horrible form, breathing fire, and with eyes like burning lamps. It was the demon Beelzebub, whom he had called up to serve him._

_"Set me a task!" said he, with a voice like the roaring of an iron furnace._

_The boy only trembled, and his hair stood up._

_"Set me a task, or I shall strangle thee!"_

_But the lad could not speak. Then the evil spirit stepped towards him, and putting forth his hands touched his throat. The fingers burned his flesh. "Set me a task!"_

_"Water yon flower," cried the boy in despair, pointing to a geranium which stood in a pot on the floor. Instantly the spirit left the room, but in another instant he returned with a barrel on his back, and poured its contents over the flower; and again and again he went and came, and poured more and more water, till the floor of the room was ankle-deep._

_"Enough, enough!" gasped the lad; but the demon heeded him not; the lad didn't know the words by which to send him away, and still he fetched water._

_It rose to the boy's knees and still more water was poured. It mounted to his waist, and Beelzebub still kept on bringing barrels full. It rose to his armpits, and he scrambled to the table-top. And now the water in the room stood up to the window and washed against the glass, and swirled around his feet on the table. It still rose; it reached his breast. In vain he cried; the evil spirit would not be dismissed, and to this day he would have been pouring water, and would have drowned all Yorkshire. But the master remembered on his journey that he had not locked his book, and therefore returned, and at the moment when the water was bubbling about the pupil's chin, rushed into the room and spoke the words which cast Beelzebub back into his fiery home._

In the darkness of the room, Sherlock's face split into a jaded grin. Now even demons had homes.

He crumpled the letter and threw it away.

* * *

><p><em>So it's fairly simple to cut right through the mess,<br>And to stop the muscle that makes us confess._

* * *

><p>"A Budweiser."<p>

"Two, please."

Sebastian smirked at Ron as they sat at the bar.

"Can't even make your own mind about what you're gonna drink?"

"I was going to order that! You just beat me to it."

"Like to so many other things."

"Oh shut up. You have no right to be a twat on my birthday."

"Yeah, that's why I'm here. Couldn't find anyone else to celebrate?"

"Well my best friend is attending a wedding abroad, and you know how close I am to my family."

"So cruel! I'm not your best friend?"

" My father would never fly to London just for my birthday anyway, not all the way from Sydney. He didn't even come to see my mother after her operation. I know it was only the cataract, but still..."

Sebastian pouted but did a poor job at hiding his amusement.

"But I'm still the only friend who'd celebrate your birthday with you, aren't I?"

"Nobody else was free tonight."

"Thanks, I really feel privileged."

"Idiot."

"Who's the idiot?"

"Here are your drinks."

"Thanks."

"Thank you."

They drank, and Ron sighed with contentment.

"So... Why did you introduce me to these people, Seb?" he asked. "I mean they're nice and all, but you've never introduced me to anyone. I didn't even know you had friends."

"Exactly! _That's_ why. They didn't think I could have friends either."

At this, Ron burst out laughing.

"It's not funny, man!" Seb protested. "Everybody seems to think I'm just some lady killer who keeps travelling everywhere running after women."

"Well that's true, isn't it?"

"No it _isn't."_

"You're away most of the time. If you're not courting women, what d'you do, then?"

"I've become faithful."

"_Faithful_? You?"

"Oh come on."

"Who's the poor woman?"

"What do you mean _poor_ woman?"

"Well she's stuck with you."

Sebastian shrugged.

"So?" Ron insisted, a smirk on his lips. "Is she a beauty?"

"The eccentric type, I s'ppose. A funny face."

Ron blinked "Eccentric?"

"Lovely white skin, blue eyes, silky black curls."

"Right, that sounds more like it."

"Like what?" "

"Like a woman you'd want to sleep with."

"Ha ha ha!"

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"No, what?"

"I was just thinkin'."

"Thinking? You?"

"Oh shut up."

"So why are we getting wasted here?"

"Because you haven't had a girl since you broke it off with Edith."

"But you've got a girl."

"Sort of."

"Still, you have no bloody reason to be depressed!"

"Yeah, well I'm being a good friend, getting wasted with you, in support."

"Oh thanks. Thanks a lot."

They exchanged a look, and broke into laughter. A few hours later, Sebastian was supporting Ron on the street, half-carrying him and trying to hail a cab – but of course, seeing their poor state, none were stopping.

"Damn it, this is useless!"

Ron giggled.

"Useless? Yeah, that's me, that's pretty much me. Useless. I'm useless."

"God don't tell me you're a sad drunk, are ya? I was talkin' about the cab. The cab, man! Nobody's gonna take you in that state."

"You'll take me."

"What?"

Ron giggled again and tried to turn to look at his friend, almost tripping himself and falling in the process.

"Hey what d'you think you're doing! God, Ronald, behave!"

"Ronald? You never call me Ronald."

"Ron. Ron, behave."

"But I'm behavin', Seb, I'm behavin'."

"What am I gonna do with you?"

"Bring me home?"

"That's what I'm trying to do! But look at you, you drunk, no cab will take you home!"

"I meant _your_ home, Seb! Didn't you say you live close by?"

Moran stared at him a second. "You remember that? Then you're not as drunk as you look."

He let go of him and watched. The other staggered a little, then crashed to the ground. Sebastian stared.

"Or maybe you are."

He shouldn't have let it come to this, he thought as he opened the door to his studio. But refusing to let Ron sleep over now that he was too drunk to go home would have seemed suspicious – and Seb himself was too wasted to take the tube with him and make sure he made it home. This was silly. But his studio was clean and tidy, and Ron clearly too exhausted to root around his personal belongings and find compromising material... i.e. weapons.

"A studio? You live in a studio? But you could afford a flat and even a loft like mine..."

"Yeah, well, I'm not in London often enough to bother."

"Riiiight. Your blue-eyed beauty. Where does she live by the way?"

"Oh, she travels a lot."

"Her too? But where is she from?"

"She's English."

"Ha! Going abroad to shag an English woman! You're unbelievable, man."

"We don't exactly _shag,"_ Sebastian murmured, grinning, and sure that Ron wouldn't hear him. But of course the idiot did.

"_What_? You've become faithful to a woman you don't even f..."

"Oh shut up, Ron, will you? I've brought you here so you can sleep. So _we_ can sleep."

"Right, right, sorry. Useless, remember? I'm useless. So useless..."

"Stop talking nonsense."

"Even my dad thinks I'm useless. They only care about my brother anyway. It sucks to be the second son, nobody's got any expectations from you, nobody gives a damn..."

"Here, glass of water. Think you're gonna be sick?"

"Sick?" Ron let out a strange giggle, which almost sounded like a sob. "Nah, man, I'm not gonna be sick. I'm not such a pain in the ass."

"Never said you were."

"No you didn't. You're kind, Seb."

"Not exactly how I would've described myself, but..."

"Did you ever wonder why you even bothered with this?"

"What?" Moran asked, perplexed.

"Life!" Ron announced with grandiloquence.

"'Cause it's fun?"

"Is it? Is it fun, Seb?"

"Yes, it is. Take the bed, I'll sleep on the sofa."

"No, I'll take the sofa. I'm imposing on you after a–"

"Shut up, Ron. Just take the bed. Happy birthday."

There was a moment of silence. Then Ron put back the glass on the table and walked dizzily to the bed, on which he fell.

"Thank you," he let out before falling into a deep slumber. Sebastian vaguely groaned something back before he did the same, on the sofa.

He woke up next morning with one of the most awful headaches he'd ever had.

"Damn..." he muttered. His eyes widened when he saw Ron moving about, setting what looked like breakfast on the only table in the studio. "What the... What the hell are you doing?"

"Oh, you're awake! Just fixing something for breakfast. Tea or coffee?"

"Tea or... God damn you." The idiot seemed perfectly fine, as if he hadn't been a total mess the previous night. Here he was happy as Larry, looking annoyingly fit. "Why do _I_ have a hangover when _you'_ve been the one drinking?"

"Hey, you had your share of beer too!"

"Right... OK, you can get out now."

"What?"

"Have some breakfast if you like – I mean, you made it after all – but then go back to your flat, Ron."

"Are you throwing me out?"

"Yeah, my head is killing me, I need to rest – and I missed my flight, I'm gonna be _killed_."

"Ooh, you stood Blue-eyed beauty for me? And that's a lot of killing in one sentence, mate."

"Well," Seb answered, ignoring the second part of Ron's words, "it was your birthday."

"Awww."

"Get. Out. Now." Seb ordered before glancing at his mobile phone. _**You've got a message**_.

**Where the hell are you?**

Sebastian groaned.

"What, is your girlfriend gonna make you a scene?"

"She already is making one. Out, now!"

"I didn't even get coffee!"

**Give me some slack**, Sebastian typed. **I was just getting wasted with a friend. Will take the next plane. **

"Well then drink it now!"

"Fine, fine!"

Sebastian's phone vibrated again. **A **_**friend**_**? **

**Shut up**, Seb typed.

"All right, you seem pissed. I'll leave you to it, then. Good luck with the girlfriend, man."

Sebastian looked at his mobile phone morosely as Ron closed the door behind him.

"Sometimes I do wonder why I even bother," he grumbled, tossing the phone away.

* * *

><p><em>And we are so fragile,<br>And our cracking bones make noise_

* * *

><p>"You're late," Sherlock stated coldly as Moran entered the room.<p>

"Late for what, exactly?" Sebastian replied curtly. Sherlock sharply looked up at him. "What do you need me for, huh? We're doing nothing, Sherlock. _Nothing. _We're done, and you know we are."

"Fine. We're done. So what next?"

"Yeah, Sherlock," Moran said as he dropped his luggage and took off his jacket. "What next?"

"I'm not sure I'm going to need a sniper from now on. Consider a career change?"

"Me? Nah. Why should I bother?"

"Well who are you going to work for, then?"

Moran shrugged and looked around the room until he spotted the mini-bar. He walked to it and served himself a brandy.

"Do you want something?" he asked.

"Do you plan on getting drunk again?"

"Oh please. Don't tell me you never get wasted."

"I never do."

"Well you were a drug addict, so you're not one to give lessons!"

"I wasn't–"

"So," Moran cut in, "did you send all the precious information to Big Brother yet?"

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits as he observed his partner.

"I did."

"Good. Veeery good."

"Mimicking him again? I thought you'd got over that habit."

"Well I don't do it when I'm with John."

Sherlock glared.

"What? It's not my fault _you_ refuse to see him. I'm free to do what I want."

"And does that include killing him?"

Moran burst out laughing.

"You'd like to know, don't you? Anyway, if you don't find something for me to do, Sherlock, I'll just leave you. This is a sinking ship."

"'This' being?"

"You, Sherlock. Your mind. You're a mess, a complete mess, and you won't even admit it."

"There's nothing messy about–"

"WRONG!" Seb exclaimed with a laugh. "Wrong, didn't you use to type that and send it to every reporter to make idiots of the police? Jim told me that. Knew a lot about you, old Jim."

"Are you drunk?"

"Not yet."

"Put that glass down."

"You ordering me?"

"Of course I am, I am your boss. Put that glass down."

Sebastian laughed.

"Look at you, Sherlock, just look at you!"

They heard thunder rolling in the distance. Outside the sky was getting darker.

"There are so many things wrong with you, the list is endless."

"It's the pot calling the kettle black."

"Well we're both _black,_ then, Sherlock. There's no light in us. None."

"Stop drinking."

"I'll do what I want. You're boring, dear, you're boring me! Why should I listen to you? You've become pathetic. Even the Iceman thought so, coming all the way to bloody Washington DC..."

Sebastian let himself fall back on the sofa and watched Sherlock.

"So you won't return, you say. There will be no return of Sherlock Holmes!" He laughed again – an eerie, unnatural laugh. Not that anything could be considered natural coming from that man. "You haven't learned a thing. This, _all of this_, it's all gone to waste. You still don't know what matters. Jim thought you knew. Kind of. Thought that you were like him. But he wasn't completely fooled. You're not like him, Sherlock, are you? Jim would have let me die. Had he been in your place and me in John Watson's, he would have let me die, and laughed in your face."

"Do you feel bitter about it, perhaps?"

Another laugh, apparently more honest this time. Candid.

"Bitter? God, you really are an idiot. You got it all wrong, Sherlock. I should've held those eggplants for you when we were in Kyoto – you're blind, so sickeningly _blind_."

"All right, enough. You're giving me a headache."

"A headache. I'm giving him a headache, he says! Do you know how many people _you_ must have given a headache? Must be countless."

"Probably, indeed."

Their eyes locked. Recognition filled Moran's pupils.

"Oh! So that's it! God, that's it!" He broke into laughter once more. "You think you're a hero! No, that's not exactly it, is it? You _want_ to act like a hero! For once. For once in your life, you want to be the hero."

"You're talking nonsense."

"No I'm not. You want to 'protect John's happiness' or something of the like, don't you? Greg Lestrade, Martha Hudson... You think they've grieved you enough. That now they've moved on and your role is only to ensure that they live their life safely and as happily as possible. You believe what John wrote on his blog! You believe it, don't you? That you're not safe. That if you are with them, you will jeopardize their safety..."

"Please don't refill your glass, you've had enough."

"So you left on your own, you _died_... And you don't intend to go back. You're deluded, Sherlock. Truth is, you're just a coward. You're the one who's scared to go back. Even though you'd be welcomed as a hero! The wronged genius everybody believed to be a fake and who was proved to be real... People are fickle, Sherlock. But you found that out, didn't you? So what, are you tired of fame? Nah. Nah, it doesn't have anything to do with fame, does it? Ever read the old sailors' tales? Sailors of the past, who roamed the seas, never sure to come back, and their wives waiting, waiting for them... Ulysses and Penelope all over again!"

This time Sherlock did not bother answering, since what he said seemed to have so little effect on the other.

"And so here you are, stubborn as ever, thinking you're the captain of the ship! _Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul._"

"Can't you just be quiet, for once?

"In the fell clutch of circumstance," Seb continued, and Sherlock groaned, "I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed."

Sherlock repressed a sigh and took Moran's pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket. He lit one and brought it to his lips, ignoring the other who kept declaiming solemnly:

"Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the Horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds and shall find me unafraid."

Outside the sky finally broke and it began to rain. Gazing pensively out the window, Sherlock blew a bluish white smoke against the windowpane.

"It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll..." Sebastian paused for emphasis, and finished theatrically, his tone laced with irony: "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul."

The room fell silent. It was perfectly quiet except for the sound of the rain falling outside and against the windowpane. Relentless.

"Beautiful poem, ain't it?" Sebastian asked, lighting a cigarette and joining Sherlock at the window.

Sherlock did not answer, and they did not talk for a while.

"Say, Sherlock," Moran began quietly, so quietly it barely felt like he'd just broken the silence that shrouded them. "If you were sure – a hundred per cent certain – that killing me would bring no harm to John, you would do it and leave me to rot in a ditch, wouldn't you? You'd seriously do it."

Sherlock glanced at him before looking out the window at the rain again.

"If I was sure – one hundred per cent certain – that letting you live would bring no harm to him... then I would let you live, Seb."

Outside, the thunder rolled.

* * *

><p><em>And we are just,<br>Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys._

* * *

><p>"What about the Caribbean? I've always wanted to go there."<p>

Sherlock stared at the man who was lazily drinking a cocktail in front of him.

"The Caribbean? That is awfully cliché. And too hot."

Sebastian rolled his eyes.

"What, wanna move to Siberia, then? I'm not sure you'll find many _clients _there, y'know."

"What about China?"

Moran blinked. "China? What in the world would you want to do in China? And I don't speak Chinese, by the way."

"Well, I do."

"Right. Great. Why China?"

Sherlock pretended to keep reading the newspaper and ignored him. Sebastian frowned.

"What's so important in the paper?"

"Nothing. It's boring, nothing's going on."

"Is that why you want to go to China?"

"Maybe."

Sebastian sighed.

"What about London? A lot's going on, there."

"Like what?"

"Well, Mary is getting quite good at the guitar. Harry really stopped drinking for now. Lestrade is still trying to make sense of the 'Snow White murders'. John–"

Sherlock closed the newspaper briskly and glared. Sebastian answered his look pointedly.

"–John is still sleeping with one of your shirts."

"Shut up, just shut up, Seb."

"Now you snap at the very mention of his name! The Iceman can do wonders."

"Can we have the bill, please?"

"Yes sir."

"The bill? Sherlock, they say the check over here."

"Well, they still understand proper English, don't they?"

Moran burst out laughing. "Proper English? God you're unbelievable. I have no idea how you intend to live anywhere but in London, seriously."

"What do you know about the Black Lotus?"

Moran tilted his head to the side, acting all surprised. "Oh! That's why you want to go to China?"

"Just answer me, Seb."

"Well, they were one of Jim's clients at a time. But I wasn't around, then."

"You're useless."

Sebastian's gaze became a little more intense, and a small smile floated on his lips. "Useless, am I?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, you are. Is that all you can tell me?"

"I'm afraid so, yes. I never asked Jim a lot about... well, anything, really. I didn't care about what he'd done before we met."

"Or the number of people he'd killed, I suppose."

"Jim never killed anyone. Well, except Carl Powers, but you already know that, don't you?"

Sherlock did not answer. Moran repressed a sigh.

"So... You want to track down the Black Lotus? No, I mean, I understand! You've only got a few options after all, including going back home and being happy with the person you love, but hey, there's the Chinese Mafia, what could be more fun?"

Sherlock glowered, eliciting a grin from the sniper.

"Tell me, Sherlock, what's your definition of a good life?"

"Depends on people."

"Yeah, of course. What about John? What do you think a good life would be for him?"

"A long, safe, happy life with his family."

"Mmm. I don't believe a word of it. Nor do you."

"He's changed. Getting older, too. It's only natural he'd want to settle down. We had a great time together and that's it. It is regrettable that it had to end so tragically, but..."

"But it _didn't_ end tragically! For goodness' sake, Sherlock, are you going mad? In case you haven't noticed, you're _not_ dead!"

"I think I had noticed, thank you, Sebastian," Sherlock replied icily.

"I'm going back to the room, you're pissing me off," Seb grumbled as he stood up. "And I'm tired of being locked up in a different hotel room every day, too! This isn't a life!"

He left and realized with some surprise that he really was annoyed with his "master". Sherlock was obviously going through hell, now that he remembered _everything_ about John, and so very clearly too, unbearably precisely, it seemed. Yet he was still running away.

_But it has to end as it begun_, Moran thought as he opened the door to their bedroom. He couldn't just go and do as he pleased.

He dropped on the bed and moaned: "God, I'm bored!" just as Sherlock entered the room. "Oh, you followed me? Care to join me?"

Sherlock gave him a look and walked to his suitcase. "On the bed?"

"Well, we've got to occupy ourselves, haven't we?"

"By sleeping during daytime? No, thank you."

"Sleeping? Ha ha ha! I wasn't suggesting that we _slept_, Sherlock. Jesus you're so bloody innocent."

"Or just not interested," Sherlock replied, looking thoroughly bored. Sebastian rolled on the bed and stared intently at Sherlock's back.

"You will go back to London eventually, we both know it," he said.

"Do we?"

"Yeah. So tell me, Sherlock, how are you going to touch John?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "I thought we already had that conversation."

"He's smitten with you, y'know. He'll want more than just your regal presence in the room."

At this Sherlock turned to him and glared heatedly.

"Ooh, touchy," Moran said with a grin. "Still scared of sex, are we?"

"I'm not scared."

"Of course you're not. How could you? My little Virgin."

In a second Sherlock was on him, pinning Sebastian against the mattress violently.

"I. Want. You. To be quiet!"

"Mmm, good move, Sherlock, if a little too rough..."

"Oh shut up, I know you're not even attracted to men."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Now shut up."

"I tried to seduce John, y'know."

Sherlock froze beside him. Seb smirked. "Interested now, are we?"

But the taller man sat up on the bed and turned away from Moran, taking out his mobile phone and ignoring him again.

"I even went through the trouble of dressing like you would. I'm good at mimicking, you know I am."

"You enjoy messing with people's heads too much for your own good," Sherlock growled.

"But you mess with people's heads a lot more than I do, Sherlock. You have no idea how much you're messing with _John's_ right now."

"How am I–"

"You have everything needed to make him happy, perfectly happy, like not many men can ever hope to be. And you throw the chance away, just like that. You're a fool, Sherlock."

"Sorry if I can't exactly believe your words when you seem to worry so much about your target's well-being."

Moran's eyes widened.

"So he's become my target, now, has he? For your information, we're just fr–"

"Then will you tell me? If you're _friends_. What do you intend to do with him the moment I take my eyes off you?"

Sebastian's face broke into a grin.

"I can't tell you that, Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Their eyes locked in a staring contest which felt like a fight to the death.

"So don't you take your eyes off me, dear," Moran said in a singsong voice. Sherlock's gaze hardened.

"I won't."

* * *

><p><em>You fasten my seatbelt because it is the law.<br>In your two ton death trap I finally saw._

* * *

><p>The Golem was running to you. At the last moment you fired and shot him in the right eye. A tearing howl ripped the night.<p>

He was strangling you. You shot in the left eye. In the open mouth that was screaming right before you. The monster crashed on the ground at your feet and you stood there, drenched in his blood.

_Golem! Let him go... or I will kill you. _

You looked down and watched as the gigantic body thrashed with death throes, feeling his blood running down your face and throat.

Soon the ethereally pale body lied motionless, his skin glowing in the moonlight, as white and bloodied as yours. The corpse looked like your old friend the skull, and so much like yourself too... And now you are staring at yourself lying dead on the pavement, eye-less, mouth-less, a poor mimicry of a ghost. _I'm not leaving, you know_.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The first thing he felt was the wetness on his cheeks. He brought a hand to his face and sighed.

"Still dreaming about your old friend Oskar Dzundza?" Moran asked in the darkness.

"Do you ever sleep?" Sherlock asked.

"I try. But it's hard, lying with a man whose nights are filled with nightmares."

"Get your own room, then."

"Aw, no need to be so rude," Sebastian mumbled as he crept up on him. Sherlock shivered and shook off his embrace.

"Don't touch me," he murmured.

Sebastian ran a hand down his spine and Sherlock felt sick.

"Why don't you let me comfort you?"

"I don't need _comfort._"

"Yes you do."

"I'm not falling for this, Seb."

"You don't need to fall," Moran whispered as he spooned him. Sherlock stiffened instantly. He closed his eyes.

"Get off me."

"You're violent, Sherlock. You always were. John would never torture anyone – he killed that cabby to save your life, but he would never have tortured him..."

"Shut up."

"He wouldn't have thrown a man out the window. Well, if you had been the one manhandled by him, perhaps. He did punch the Chief Superintendant just because he was badmouthing you after all..."

"Seb. Let go of me and shut up."

"No."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"John is still sleeping with one of your shirts, you know."

"Yes, or so you've said."

"It's true! I wonder what he does with it at night..."

"Seb."

"He must really be needy if he has recourse to such methods to get off..."

"_Seb_."

"Y'know, I don't think he'd mind that you killed someone at all. As long as it's your hands–"

Suddenly Sherlock started to laugh, quietly at first, then almost hysterically.

"What?" Seb asked, clearly wondering if his boss had finally snapped and gone mad.

"Did you seriously use the same aftershave?" the taller man asked. "Just to lure me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock pushed him back and turned to face him.

"John's. You used the same aftershave as he used to."

Sebastian grinned in the darkness.

"He still uses the same. I'm impressed you've noticed."

"No you're not. You wanted me to notice."

"Well I was hoping we'd get a bit further before you did, but..."

Sherlock rolled back on his side of the bed and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

This, _this_ was hell. What he had with Sebastian Moran.

A duet, and a duel.

* * *

><p><em>A piece of love in your face that bathed me in regret.<br>Then you drove me to places I'll never forget._

* * *

><p>"Don't you think it's funny he never doubted you?"<p>

"...It's 4am, Seb."

"Perfectly sound analysis, genius."

Sherlock groaned. He was groaning more and more often these days, Moran noticed with some glee. But he was so pigheaded even his suffering wasn't enough to assuage Sebastian's nerves. The sniper still enjoyed teasing, however, and there was nothing better to do during those endless sleepless nights anyway.

"I think it's funny," he went on, with the voice he knew irritated Sherlock. Not quite like Moriarty's, but just singsong enough to be reminiscent of it. "I definitely think it's funny that he was closer to the truth at the very beginning, hoping, almost begging your grave that you performed a miracle... Now he's got no hope. It's actually been a while since he stopped hoping."

Sherlock did not answer. That was new, too, and Moran could tell it was his way of saying _piss off_ when he was too tired.

"Tell me, Sherlock, did you not think of John, even if just a little? Did it cross your brilliant mind that he might be _happy_ to know that you're not dead?"

Still no answer.

"Were you happy when you learned John _wasn't_ dead, Sherlock?" Sebastian asked more quietly. "Oh don't frown of course I know that's how Mycroft tricked you. That's how _I _would have tricked you."

"Well that's great to know Seb. Get back to sleep now?"

"Is that a request?"

"Orders don't work with you."

"So it _is_ a request."

"Take it the way you want."

"Do you have to be so bitchy?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Beg better than that, then."

Sherlock turned to his side to face the sniper.

"The power over life and death you talked about the other time..." he began. Sebastian's eyes widened at the softness of his tone. He sounded like a child. "...how did you put it, again? 'That edge where you stand and know that with one little gesture you will put an absolute, irreversible end to everything that a person once was and is and could be'... Do you think that John knows this feeling too?"

Moran's breath caught in his throat. Then he groaned. _You're messing with me, Sherlock. You're seriously messing with me. _Tentatively, Seb reached towards Sherlock's chest and rested his hand on his heart. It wasn't hammering, but he could distinctly feel it beating against his palm. Sherlock did not push him back.

"Depends what _feeling_ you're talking about... I've talked to John a lot now. I guess I know him a little. Nothing like _you,_ of course." He let out a laugh. "But I think I can safely say that John doesn't enjoy killing people. That's not the kind of thrill that shakes his boat. I mean, the one time he killed someone for you, he couldn't even see his face as he died! Where's the fun in that?"

Slowly, his thumb started rubbing Sherlock's chest in circular strokes, as if Moran wasn't even aware of it. "Jim said shooting was such a pedestrian way to get off. Just like sex. John Watson had sex – he really _was_ a Casanova, when you think about it. OK, he enjoyed pulling rank, so what? Most officers do. But John Watson is a proper hero, Sherlock. A real warrior, if you see what I mean."

"I don't," Sherlock deadpanned.

Sebastian pouted.

"Do you need to be so _not_ cute?"

"...Can you please speak proper English?"

Moran sighed. "Fine, forget it. When I say a warrior, I mean... Very righteous, see? Pledged his allegiance to you and–"

"He never did such a thing."

"Symbolically! Metaphorically, Sherlock. Please do try to follow. He would have given his life for you. He would have killed for you – he did, in fact. But you know him, you know him better than I do: strong moral principles, nerves of steel... That's what I meant by _a real warrior_."

"You've got a peculiar image of warriors, Seb," Sherlock said, and his tone was genuine. It made Moran want to hug him – or put a bullet in his head to see the shock and childlike surprise on his face. He ran his fingers in Sherlock's curls.

"You're such a kid," he murmured.

"Can't you stop touching me?" Sherlock grumbled. "If you're so emotionally demanding, why don't you–"

"_Emotionally demanding_? Ha ha ha! God, Sherlock, can you hear yourself? Emotionally demanding!"

"Oh, just go back to sleep," Sherlock groaned, turning away again. Sebastian smirked before tousling the grumbling man's hair.

"Don't worry, my dear. Your John is a hero and a devoted one, too. Devoted to you, that is."

"Fine, great, just _sleep_ now, or pretend you do. Just be quiet."

Moran fell back on the mattress, but before he complied, added in a low voice:

"But you know, he must have felt it too when he came back from the war. Boredom. Meaninglessness... He must have felt it too..."

And with these words, he fell back to sleep.

The next day Sherlock made him take the plane and brought him to yet another hotel. Sebastian could have shot him there and then.

"This is starting to get crazy."

"What?"

"Are you planning on spending all the money you have left on bloody hotel rooms?!"

"No, I want to go to China."

"That again?! You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am."

"Then what are we still doing here, Sherlock? Why aren't we in China yet? Or perhaps you intend to get rid of me before you go there?"

"I'm not trying to get rid of you, Seb, although I wish I could."

"You're playing a dangerous game, Sherlock."

"We've always been playing a dangerous game, you and I."

"Are you flirting?"

"Not in my wildest dreams."

Sebastian snorted. "I bet."

Sherlock gave him a look.

"A dangerous game, you say. Right, it is a dangerous game. But I'm curious Sherlock, just a teensy bit curious, so won't you tell me? In this game, _my dear_, who's the predator? Who's _the prey_?"

Sherlock's gaze did not leave the newspaper he'd been reading. "I am not going to do another of those staring contests with you, Seb. I'm tired."

Moran's expression turned cold, but since Sherlock was oh so busy ignoring him, he missed it.

"No," he said darkly. "_I'm_ tired. I'm out of here."

This of course snapped Sherlock out of his little act and he finally looked up at the sniper, who chose this very moment to turn away and take his jacket.

"I'm leaving. You're getting on my nerves. My job is done here."

Now Sherlock was on his feet, stiff. Sebastian relished the tension emanating from him. _Now you're listening, aren't you?_

"Where do you think you're going?"

"London."

"No, you're not."

Moran felt the gun being pressed in his back. It made him want to laugh. So he did.

"I'm serious, Seb."

"Oh I'm sure you are. But you won't shoot, Sherlock. You can't."

He turned and looked him in the eye. For a second he was reminded of a similar scene, one from long ago, ages, on a rooftop with another man. A veil fell over his pupils.

"You won't shoot, Sherlock, because you have no idea what will happen to John Watson if you do."

Sebastian put on his jacket and took his bag. He left without another look.

The gun never fired.

* * *

><p><em>And we are so fragile,<br>And our cracking bones make noise,  
>And we are just,<br>Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys._

* * *

><p>He was gone. Really gone.<p>

But instead of feeling relieved, Sherlock could only admit that he was furious and terrified all at once. Yes, that was it. Terror. Fury.

_Well at least I'm not bored._

A broken laugh escaped his lips.

"I'm becoming mad," he said to the empty room.

_I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. _

"I'm not bored," he went on, pacing the room with agitation. He couldn't follow Sebastian. Not to London. He couldn't go back there. Couldn't risk being seen by John, or Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or...

_A man like you. So clever. _

Or anyone. Thanks to those stupid newspapers his face was well-known now. Any stranger could recognize him on the street – well, maybe not _any_ stranger, but still, some random person could just see him and know he was that fake detective who turned out not to be a fake and...

_But what's the point in being clever if you can't prove it? _

No, he couldn't risk it. Definitely couldn't risk it. China was good. He'd go to China. Nobody would recognize him there. He could investigate all he wanted. Make Mycroft give him papers, create a new identity for him. He could even do it himself. He had the contacts now. All the contacts in the world.

_Still the addict. But... this is what you're really addicted to. _

He could put everything behind him once and for all... but for Moran. There was no telling what Moran would do. He couldn't possibly let him live in London so close to John and the others without surveillance. And he couldn't trust Mycroft with it either – a bullet is faster than any of Mycroft's cars. It'd be too late. Sherlock knew Sebastian by now, and unless he kept an eye on him at all times, he knew the sniper could not be stopped. Whatever he planned to do.

_You'd do anything... anything at all, to stop being bored. _

Sherlock cursed under his breath. He should have shot the man in the legs. Why hadn't he thought of it then? He didn't have to kill him. Just a bullet in the leg would have been enough.

But enough to what? Stop him from going to London? And for how long?

Sherlock growled. He took his mobile phone and dialled a number.

"Shinwell? It's me."

_You're not bored now, are you?_

* * *

><p><em>And we are so fragile,<br>And our cracking bones make noise,  
>And we are just...<em>

* * *

><p>"<em>How many roads must a man walk down,<br>Before you call him a man?"_

Perhaps he shouldn't have gone on such an impulse, Moran thought as he was cleaning his sniper rifle with care. But Sherlock had been getting on his wick lately, and he needed a lesson.

"_How many seas must a white dove sail,  
>Before she sleeps in this sand?"<em>

Sebastian groaned. Stupid song. Bob Dylan's songs were always like that, they got into your head and just stayed there indefinitely. It would play in your head when you woke up at night, when you drove somewhere, or when you did any other ordinary activity such as cleaning your weapons.

_"Yes, how many times must the cannon balls fly,  
>Before they're forever banned?"<em>

It was distracting, but even more distracting was Seb's annoyance with Sherlock. Jim had been a hassle to live with sometimes, but most of the time he was just interesting. Sherlock was interesting, of course, but right now he was being an idiot – or a smart coward, if you prefer, which is even worse – and this irritated Moran to no end. He never liked idiots. Dealt with them when it was strictly necessary. But with Jim, he'd got used to not having to deal with them so much, and having Sherlock acting stupid _now_ of all times was a real thorn in Moran's side.

_"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,  
>The answer is blowin' in the wind."<em>

With hindsight, Seb thought that it might have been the fault of the stupid song playing in his mind; or perhaps he'd been angrier with Sherlock than he'd thought. Strange thing, the fickle finger of fate. In any case, he did not hear the steps in the staircase outside his studio. Did not hear them stop in front of his door. Him, a _sniper_. He did not pay attention, and jumped in surprise when the door to his flat swung open.

"Hey Seb, I was nearby and I thought..."

Moran did not know which of them froze first. Ron's eyes locked with his until they inexorably fell to the rifle in his hands.

"Seb, what the hell are you–"

"Close the door behind you."

"What?"

"NOW!"

_"Yes, and how many years can a mountain exist,  
>Before it is washed to the sea?"<em>

Ron fumbled with the door and dropped the pack of beers he'd been holding. Sebastian carefully put the rifle away in its case and under his bed. He tried to look panicked.

"We've got to go, Ron. It's not safe here."

"Not safe? Of course it's bloody not safe, what the hell are you doing with–"

"Ron, there's no time! We've got to get out of here, it's dangerous!"

"Why do you have a sniper rifle under your bed, Seb?" His tone was disbelieving, but Moran could already hear the accusatory edge in it.

"Let's go to your place, Ron, we'll talk there. I'll tell you everything but we can't stay here. Please. You've got to trust me." He looked him in the eye as he said this, grabbed his arm, squeezed lightly. Ron took a deep breath.

"Fine. Let's go. But you'd better tell me what's going on."

_"Yes, and how many years can some people exist,  
>Before they're allowed to be free?"<em>

"Did you come here by car?"

"No, I told you, I was just walking by and–"

"OK, we'll walk to your place then.

"_What_? Do you know how long that will take?!"

"Not more than 35 minutes."

"But Seb..."

"Ron, I don't want to involve innocent people. We can't go on the tube. And a cab would be too easy to follow."

"We're _followed_?"

"I don't know," Moran replied, glancing around nervously.

_"Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head,  
>And pretend that he just doesn't see?"<em>

They barely talked as they walked there, and Sebastian kept telling Ron they had to wait until they were in his flat to have a proper conversation, that they should just talk of one thing and another. "What did you do today?" "Went to the Bagatelle card club." "Had any luck?" "No, I lost five pounds." "Well that's nothing awful." Ron's mood was dark, sometimes fearful when Sebastian suddenly jumped as if he'd seen someone and been confirmed in his idea they were trailed. "Are we being followed?" Ron would whisper then. "I don't think so, but I'm not sure." "I don't want them to know where I live. Do we have to go to my flat?" "By the time we get to your neighbourhood, I'll know if we're followed or not, and if it's safe. Don't worry."

_"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,  
>The answer is blowin' in the wind."<em>

It took them 30 minutes to get to Ron's loft on Park Lane.

"Is anyone there?" Sebastian asked as Ron opened the door.

"What? No, of course not. You know Hilda is staying with mom – I mean, who would want to share a flat with their _sister_ when in London?"

"Right," Seb answered distractedly, looking around. No one was paying any attention to them.

"You all right?"

"Fine. I'm fine. Is there another way out?"

"Yeah, there's a back door behind the wheelie bins in the backyard."

"Good."

"But we're not followed, are we?"

"No. It's OK."

_"Yes, and how many times must a man look up  
>Before he can see the sky?"<em>

They entered the flat and Ron locked the door behind them.

"Let's go to your sitting-room then."

"It's a bit messy, sorry. I'm working on my accounts."

"You short of money?"

"Oh no," Ron answered as he opened the door to his sitting room and opened the window. Then he turned to Seb.

"I can open the window, right? It's safe?"

"Does your window give onto the backyard?"

"Yeah. And it's not overlooked."

"It's fine, then."

_"Yes, and how many ears must one man have,  
>Before he can hear people cry?"<em>

"Well, please sit down, I'll just clean this a bit," Ron said as he bent and gathered the papers on his desk. Sebastian took a deep breath. Smoothly he took a handgun out of his jacket. Without batting an eye, he put a soft-nosed bullet in Ron's head.

_"Yes, and how many deaths will it take until he knows,  
>That too many people have died?"<em>

The man fell without a cry. Moran put on his leather gloves and locked the door behind him before walking to the body. He saw the shock, and a childlike surprise on Ron's face.

_"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind.  
>The answer is blowin' in the wind."<em>

"I didn't think you were useless, Ron," Sebastian said quietly.

He bypassed the body and walked to the window to look down in the courtyard. The sky was eerily white, as if it should have rained, but still would not for days. Moran glanced at his watch. _May 30. _

The countdown had begun.

* * *

><p><em>...breakable, breakable, breakable girls-<br>Breakable, breakable, breakable girls-  
>Breakable, breakable, breakable girls...<em>

* * *

><p>"A coffee, please. Black, two sugars."<p>

"Yes, sir."

Sherlock sighed as he checked his mailbox and saw that Sebastian had, naturally, not answered his email. There was one from Shinwell, however. Now that Mycroft knew where he was and that everything was over with IOU, they did not have to be so careful, and could easily use such pedestrian means of contacting each other as emails or phone calls.

_**You should check this**_**. **

Followed three links to different online newspapers. Sherlock clicked on the first one.

**LOCKED ROOM MYSTERY IN PARK LANE**

Sherlock's eyes widened as he read the article. Swiftly he went back to his mailbox and clicked on the second link.

**MURDER OF THE HONOURABLE RONALD ADAIR, SON OF THE EARL OF MAYNOOTH**

Sherlock scanned the article again. Clicked on the third link.

**BEHIND CLOSED DOORS**

"Your coffee, sir."

"Thank you. Here."

"Wait, your change, sir!"

"Keep it."

This hadn't been planned, Sherlock was sure. Whatever this was, it had never been part of _any_ plan.

But it was significant.

"Taxi!"

The idiot had done it. He'd finally gone and done it.

"To the airport."

"Which terminal, sir?"

"The one for international departures."

_The news could have been worse_, Sherlock kept telling himself. _It could have been another name, it could have been..._

But still there was no denying the harsh reality.

This was the sign that Moran had started the last act. The sign that everything had been set in motion.

The end was coming, inexorably.

* * *

><p><em>...and boys. <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	45. Audaces fortuna juvat

**A/N: ****The words spoken by the clergyman are from Roman 6:3-9. I haven't had time to reply individually to your reviews yet, but now that I am done with this chapter, I will! Many thanks to all of you, you know how much I appreciate it :) Only 8 more chapters to go... **

NB: FFnet doesn't allow links, so the one on Moriarty's name card looks weird. Sorry about that, couldn't do anything about it. Pretend it looks like any website link on any regular name card ;)

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

_ **Audaces fortuna juvat: **__"fortune favours the bold"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XLIV: <strong>_ Audaces fortuna juvat _

_The way I am, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>If you were falling, then I would catch you.<br>You need a light, I'd find a match._

* * *

><p>The torn out page of a book attached to a name card with a paper clip. On the back of the name card, a note. "It will all end as it begun..." Ominous. Wishing to sound ominous, at any rate.<p>

Irene turned the card over and read:

JIM MORIARTY  
><em>Consulting criminal<em>

221B, Baker Street, W1U 8EQ, London

www . thescienceofdeduction . co . uk

She put the card down on the table next to her glass of wine and _Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship_ – the book she had been reading before her date had arrived – and took a look at the torn out page.

_I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly consider'd how much depended upon what they were then doing;—that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind;—and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost;—Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly,—I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world, from that in which the reader is likely to see me.—Believe me, good folks, this is not so inconsiderable a thing as many of you may think it;—you have all, I dare say, heard of the animal spirits, as how they are transfused from father to son, &c. &c.—and a great deal to that purpose:—Well, you may take my word, that nine parts in ten of a man's sense or his nonsense, his successes and miscarriages in this world depend upon their motions and activity, and the different tracks and trains you put them into, so that when they are once set a-going, whether right or wrong, 'tis not a half-penny matter,—away they go cluttering like hey-go mad; and by treading the same steps over and over again, they presently make a road of it, as plain and as smooth as a garden-walk, which, when they are once used to, the Devil himself sometimes shall not be able to drive them off it._

_Pray my Dear, quoth my mother, have you not forgot to wind up the clock?—Good G..! cried my father, making an exclamation, but taking care to moderate his voice at the same time,—Did ever woman, since the creation of the world, interrupt a man with such a silly question? Pray, what was your father saying?—Nothing._

Irene sighed.

"What is this?" she asked, sitting back in her chair and giving an inquisitive look at the man across from her.

"The beginning of _Tristram Shandy_," Sherlock answered flatly. She stared.

"That's wonderful, but it doesn't exactly answer my question, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits, and Irene smirked. "Don't grimace like that. You're not _that_ famous. Nobody will jump the moment they hear that name, except perhaps–"

"I still don't understand what you are doing here."

"Why, I told you to meet me in this restaurant. Wouldn't it be rude for me not to show up?"

"I meant in London."

His tone was cold, and Irene frowned in order not to flinch. Flinching was definitely not one of her habits.

"Snappy, aren't we? Now I understand why that tiger hunter left you – you're even worse than tigers."

Sherlock was looking at her as if what she was saying did not make any sense, or as if he weren't truly seeing her. It upset Irene. This kind of gaze on a man's face was almost insulting.

"Funny you're the one hunting now," she went on. "The question is: who are you hunting, Mr. Holmes?"

"I reckon this is none of your business."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"I could be useful."

"I don't think so. In fact you can only be a hindrance. Can't you go back to your husband?"

"But he's in London."

"You can do whatever you want with him. Persuade him to go somewhere else. Go with him. London is not safe for you."

"Then why don't you come lodging across from my hotel? To keep an eye on me. Isn't that what you do?"

Sherlock wasn't answering. It was grating on her nerves. But her face was cool and composed, smiling one of her mocking, seductive smiles. She leant in.

"It must be tough, for you. Don't you feel like an abandoned puppy, all alone in that empty house just across John's–"

"If you called me here just to tell me this, then I have better things to do."

"Sit down, Mr. Holmes," Irene said rather curtly. "I came because I was worried."

"About me?" he snorted.

"Not only about you."

"You should worry about yourself."

"Oh I have Yi Lin for that."

"I'm sure."

She watched him sit back in his seat.

"I never believed you were dead, you know. I might have been the only one not in the know but who _knew_."

"Yes, maybe," Sherlock replied absently.

"But I was wrong about something. I thought that for sure, once you were done playing the bad guy, the great criminal mastermind, or the sacrificed hero, you'd go home whining and showing off, more childish than ever. Even sexier, too."

Sherlock gave her a look. Irene tapped on her book.

"But that's not the case. You did something I never expected; you broke yourself down to pieces. You were already broken. What was the need?" She played with her glass a little, making a clear, clinking noise with her nails. "You killed yourself, Sherlock. So I had to send the Iceman to revive you. You understand, don't you?"

She said it the way she told people she was about to whip that it was for their own good, that not only had they deserved it, but she did it for _them_, because they would feel better afterwards. Sherlock must have understood, too, for he glowered at her heatedly. For a moment she thought he'd leave for good this time. He didn't.

"You're changed, Mr. Holmes," she remarked quietly. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his mobile phone. He might have had cameras in his flat across from 221 Baker Street. Or people ensuring Dr. Watson's surveillance. Others following Moran, too. Probably. Irene smiled. No, certainly. Was he even listening to a word she was saying? She observed him, shrouded in silence.

He was wearing a wig – she could tell it was a wig because she knew the man, but nobody else would have noticed. A nondescript colour torn between brown and grey. A nondescript haircut. Nondescript clothes. He looked tired, intent, and on edge. Not the best of combinations.

"What do you think of it?" he asked.

"The letter?"

A small smile came to float on his lips. Her eyes lingered as she remembered the man he once had been, sharp, mocking, broken – one she would have loved to hear begging.

"No. The clothes."

"Oh."

Their gazes locked. Irene took her time, drank a sip of wine, put down her glass, her eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

"Well...I'm sure your brother had the same thought."

She loved to see the perplexed pout on his face, the tension in his brow. The elder Holmes elicited such reactions from the younger one that she would have given a lot just to witness their reunion scene in Washington.

"So _you_ are the one who sent him to me?" he growled.

Irene stared. "You haven't been listening at all, have you? Such a bad boy." Sherlock's attention was back on the phone. In this instant, Irene truly wanted to make him suffer. "As for the clothes, the question is obvious, isn't it?"

He did not reply; he was waiting for her to go on and she relished how he appeared to be hanging on her words, his eyes scanning her face.

"Why are _you_ here, Mr. Holmes? Are you an angel in disguise among the devils, or is it the other way around?"

Sherlock simply smiled.

* * *

><p><em>'Cause I love the way you say good morning.<br>And you take me the way I am._

* * *

><p>"...<em><em>that all of us who have been baptised into Christ Jesus were baptised into his death? We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death<em>_..."

It was raining. The rain was crushing down on her umbrella, pattering, hitting the black fabric with a crackling noise strangely akin to that of wood burning in a fireplace. The clergyman was reciting solemnly, holding his book in one hand, slightly trembling – most likely shivering from the coolness of the cemetery. Standing straight and stiff, except for the mother and the sister of the deceased whose shoulders were slumping and who almost curled up against each other under one big black umbrella, they all looked like darker and vertical gravestones. And the rain kept falling on them all.

Looking at the Adairs, Irene wondered whether rain was worse than sunshine for a funeral. No. Probably the other way around. Sunshine must be worse. Far worse. Probably. A beautiful, sunny day can be only hateful when you are burying your son.

Ronald Adair seemed to have had many friends. Or perhaps they were acquaintances, family. Quite a crowd. He was a kind boy, always there for others, his mother had said with a tremor in her voice during her speech. It was probably true. You should never believe what people say in funerals: the dead are turned into angels more often than not. The moment someone dies it is as if the person became surrounded by some sacred halo – untouchable. Uncriticable. Once a friend of hers had said that the right way to bury someone, if you really needed to say anything, was to express through words what you wanted to remember of the deceased. And generally, you wanted to remember positive things, things that you liked. Not what you didn't like – nobody ever enumerated the flaws of the dead in a funeral. Most of the time, it turned out to be a melodramatic little apologia. But this time, Irene thought that what had been said about Ronald Adair were not just empty words.

Empty. Was Sherlock's grave empty, or was Moriarty in it? She had never asked. Sherlock would know. Moran probably did. Irene watched the back of the man standing next to a tall red-haired woman and two smaller blondes – not the same kind of blond, one closer to grey, like Dr. Watson's, the other, more like ambers. Irene noted with satisfaction that none of them looked as good as she did in her black widow outfit. Nothing too stunning, of course – she did not want to attract attention. But black did not suit either of those women.

"...__so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life__..."

Irene was very close to them, close enough for Moran to recognize her face if he turned abruptly. Mary Morstan – no, Mary Watson – would not notice, Irene knew. But the sniper would. Not that it mattered; Irene did not believe he was a threat for her. He too had "better things to do".

"__For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his__..."

"I'm out of here," Moran suddenly said, turning away. Irene stepped back a little, but he wasn't looking her way. Her gaze lingered on his face for a moment.

"Seb!" Mary called quietly, following him. She put a hand on his arm. They were standing just a step away from Irene, but none of them were paying any attention to the black and white crowd – black clothes, pale faces. Mary had stepped out of John's sister's umbrella without a thought. Standing under the rain so close, Irene thought that her and Moran almost looked like a couple.

"I've heard enough of this bullshit," he said, and for the first time Irene heard an edge in his voice. He looked tired and annoyed. She had never seen him like this, but then again she did not often see him, to say the least. Sebastian Moran. He was not nearly as clever as Sherlock, but he most undoubtedly stronger. Much stronger. He wasn't really older, but he looked older. The old warrior type. A bit like Dr. Watson, she reckoned with amusement. In a different way. But the symmetry was unmistakable.

"Seb... John said I should tell you he's ready to bring you on a tour any time you want. You know, if you want to retrace–"

"I know. Thanks, Mary."

But Dr. Watson tried to be conventional. Moran did not even try. Wasn't the human soul an incredible object of observation? One could never be bored. Soul probably wasn't the right word for it, though. Irene highly doubted anyone would have granted Moran one. Yet he was just as human, if not more, than any of them.

"He's sorry he couldn't be here today," Mary went on. "He didn't tell me to say that, but he was. One of us had to stay with Blake, and he said I knew Ron more than he did. But he's sympathizing. Really. If there's anything–"

"Thanks, Mary," Moran repeated.

With one little squeeze to her hand, he turned and walked off. Mary stood under the rain, watching him go. Quietly, Irene turned and left the scene as well.

"...__For he who has died is freed from sin.__"

* * *

><p><em>If you are chilly, here take my sweater.<br>Your head is aching, I'll make it better._

* * *

><p>"Don't you have anything better to do?" a voice asked, disturbing the quietness Irene had woven around her in the tearoom.<p>

She looked up from her book and gave Moran a wolfish smile.

"Well, unfortunately, I have to behave in London now. Don't want anyone to think I'm still alive."

"You're not the only one, apparently," Moran grumbled before sitting down and ordering a coffee – black, no sugar.

"Make yourself comfortable," Irene said. Clearly the sniper did not hear the irony in her voice.

"Thanks," he replied with a long-suffering sigh. Irene closed her book. "Sherlock is a real hassle these days. I'm doing everything I can to avoid him – but I like spending time with the Watsons, and I can feel, I can seriously feel his eyes on me whenever I'm with John. It's driving me nuts."

Irene smirked and brought her cup to her coral lips. A new shade. Not as dull as pink or rose or salmon, but not sharp enough to unsettle her husband.

"Then why don't you hang out with other people?" she suggested casually. "People you don't intend to kill, for instance?"

Moran's gaze darkened instantly. His features hardened but his demeanour did not change one bit – he remained nonchalantly sprawled in his seat with a refined heedlessness.

"I never intended to kill Ron," he said coldly. "Not until the very last minute. Not until it became obvious I had no choice."

Irene snorted derisively.

"No choice, was it?"

"Shut up. I don't expect you to understand. You don't understand much, do you?"

Her lips pursed slightly and her face twisted into a regal pout while she still tried to look pleasantly amused – above it all.

"Tell me, Mrs. Hupaetos," Moran continued, "what are you doing here? What are you hoping to get?"

"I might ask you the same thing."

Moran scoffed "That's none of your business now is it?"

"There's your answer, then," Irene replied with a smile.

"Miss Salome!"

They turned to Yi Lin, who had just spoken and who was coming up to them fussily, her hands clasped on her small white leather bag – the one Irene had bought for her during their last stay in Paris. That had been a fine gift, it truly suited her complexion and the way she very discreetly painted her face; the way Irene had taught her.

"Yi Lin. What brings you here?"

"You did not say you were going out!"

"I left a note," she replied off-handedly, bringing the cup to her lips again, her eyes never leaving her maid's.

"But you should have told me!"

"Are you telling me what I should do, dear?"

Yi Lin turned crimson and fumbled. "No, I–"

"Ha ha ha! So you got a pet too? What's with you guys, seriously. Can't you have a normal relationship?"

"I'm not sure you're one to talk, Mr. Moran."

"Is it a friend of yours, Miss?" Yi Lin asked, quite evidently displeased. Irene could not repress a smile at her affronted yet professionally polite tone.

"Yes, Yi Lin. Please sit down. Would you like something to drink?"

"I think we should go–" she began.

"So I'm a friend now, am I?" Moran interrupted.

"Are you not?" Irene countered.

"If you say so." The sniper shrugged, drinking the last of his coffee. "Then let me give you some piece of friendly advice, Ms. Adler. Don't get involved in this."

"And what is 'this' exactly?"

Moran locked eyes with her. "We both know Sherlock must handle this alone."

"This?"

"Whatever. You're not gonna worm anything out of me."

"I wasn't trying to. I haven't come only for Sherlock. I assume he can take care of himself."

"Oh. Who did you come for, then? Me?" he asked with a sweet voice, batting his eyelids. "That's so kind of you, but you shouldn't worry."

Irene put her cup down and deliberately stared the man in the eye.

"If anything happens to Sherlock, even if you are only remotely responsible, please be assured that I will ensure that you die the most painful of deaths," she replied evenly, with the same sweet voice, the same genial smile.

Yi Lin shifted in her seat, evidently nervous.

"Miss Salome, let's go."

"Am I scaring you?" Moran asked with a wide, predatory grin.

"Certainly not, sir. With all my respect." She gave a little bow. Moran burst out laughing.

"You're a funny one! What's your name again?"

"Yi Lin," Irene answered. "And she's already taken."

"So is Mary Watson," Moran said with a singsong voice.

Irene simply smiled.

* * *

><p><em>Cause I love the way you call me baby.<br>And you take me the way I am._

* * *

><p>"So tell me if I got something wrong. What's worrying you isn't so much Moriarty's game than the fact that you might be forced to reveal yourself to John, is that it?"<p>

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, not even looking at her. He had been doing a lot of that lately. Not even looking at her. Irene could not blame him for it, but she thought him a fool nonetheless. "I swear your husband doesn't know how to keep an eye on you." Well you surely know how to keep an eye on what you are about, don't you?

Irene shrugged elegantly, looking around the place and pouting with distaste.

"He doesn't even try. He's busy." The room was endowed with only what was strictly necessary, which apparently included a rather important wardrobe and several suitcases whose contents were not visible. "So what if your henchman noticed me? It's not as if he didn't already know you were staying just across the street from his target."

"Shut up."

"Dr. Watson is a target. You know that."

"You could be one too."

"No I couldn't. And you know that too." She hated it when Sherlock acted stupid. When he spoke like an idiot, Irene truly despaired of mankind. If Sherlock Holmes started to transform into an utter fool, then there was not much hope for men.

Fortunately, Sherlock was not as foolish as he sometimes sounded lately. Irene smiled as her eyes fell on the figure of the small, crooked man who was scurrying about the room, paying little attention to her presence and rubbing his white beard nervously.

"Then if I know everything maybe you could just be on your way," he said.

"Do you have to be so rude? It's not very convincing when you're looking so... old."

"Be quiet."

"God, you're twisted."

"Well, always a self-portrait, remember?" Sherlock said, waving his walking stick in front of her.

His disguise was perfect, Irene mused. He looked nothing like himself. But then again, he didn't seem to have any idea of who he was anymore. Clearly it was not something he wanted to bother with. It was as if he didn't even feel concerned about his own identity.

Irene's face broke into a jaded smile and she shook her head.

"I don't understand. Why don't you just kill him now that you know what he's up to?"

"I do not know what he's up to."

"You know it can't be good."

"I know it's a game. One I have to play in order to finish this."

"You're unbelievable. Until the very end, all that matters to you is that ga–"

"No." Irene's eyes widened imperceptibly at the steadfastness of his tone. "It isn't. But I know I have to play it, because that's how Moriarty planned it." Yes, definitely pawns. But dancing ones. Half-free ones, if that made any sense. Perhaps in the end, it was the same for every person on earth who did not live as a hermit. The moment we began to interact with others, perhaps we were all half puppets. "I have to play the game, and win."

Irene glanced out the window discreetly, barely brushing the curtain; across the street she could see Mary at the window cradling her son.

"What tells you he didn't set it so you couldn't win?" she asked.

Sherlock smiled. "He wouldn't. If he did, it would no longer be a game now, would it?"

She arched her eyebrow and gave him a tantalizing look.

"Still. What makes you think you can win?"

"Please. I thought you knew me by now, Ms. Adler."

Irene's eyes gleamed. A smirk formed on her lips.

"I thought I did too, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

><p><em>I'd buy you Rogaine when you start losing all your hair.<br>Sew on patches to all you tear._

* * *

><p>Irene had encountered many people in whose company she felt helplessly bored, but never had she known anything more tedious than dinners with Samuel Hupaetos. The worst part of it was that he was trying to make conversation. He was trying to be pleasant.<p>

"Where did you go shopping today, sweetheart?"

There was that, too. All the silly nicknames. Irene had to remind herself that this man was currently both her haven and her purse to stop herself from snapping.

"I went to Wint & Kidd, darling," she replied smoothly, taking a sip from her glass. At least he knew how to choose wine.

He asked another platitudinous question and she turned on automatic mode. She had become an expert at it. Her expressions and the monosyllabic words that fell from her mouth came naturally. As everything came trippingly on the tongue, she could disconnect herself from her surroundings and focus on more interesting things.

Such as Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes was always interesting, even when he was pathetic. He was always better, even when he was not at his best (to say the least).

"A ruby."

She wasn't sure whether he or Moran was leading the game and watching the other dance. She wasn't even sure any of them had the upper hand in the matter. To her, they both looked like pawns, graceful, clever little pawns – but pawns nonetheless. It was funny how Moriarty had managed to turn all these geniuses, or at least smart men in the case of Moran, into lost, struggling puppets. By dying, he had wrecked havoc, and it was as if Sherlock, the Iceman, and Moran were mere billiard balls that he had sent flying all over the place after their collision. There was something, something that escaped them all. They all had power to some extent, they all had their say in the way this great play was enfolding. Yet it seemed none of them could completely control the situation. Each of them missed something, something crucial: and in the end, even Sherlock, who was the one in the very heart of this mad game between the three men had clearly no idea how or when he was going to be tried.

"Yes, lovely."

That was nothing new. Sherlock had never been entirely sure of the way things would turn out. The thrill resulted greatly from the lack of certainty after all, from the important part that betting played. Whatever he did that shook his boat, it was always a renewed bet on his own intelligence.

Something else that wasn't new was the fact that none of the players seemed to give a damn about collateral victims. Dr. Watson wasn't collateral, since he was the very target, the very prize for the winner, so to speak. But what about Ronald Adair? What about the landlady whose name Irene had forgotten, or that D.I. who had cleared Sherlock Holmes's name, or Mary Watson and her son? They were part of the picture, yet they did not appear on the Great Chessboard. How irritating.

"Oh?"

The only thing that made Irene feel better was how much Sherlock was suffering from all this; and, to a lesser extent, how she had succeeded in manipulating the Iceman and having him exactly where she wanted when she wanted. She did not feel any pleasure at Moran's suffering, though. She did not sympathize. She did not enjoy it. It was painful, but someone had to play that part, too, and Sebastian Moran was incredibly well suited for it. He was a real player. With a poker face.

"Indeed."

Sherlock had been a real player too, once. But now he was corrupted. John Watson had been his downfall. Oh, of course he had been long broken, and Irene had seen it immediately. He was bound to fall for it all, for friendship and caring and sentiments. Had he never met someone as crazy and as authentically loyal as Dr. Watson, someone who would so bluntly love him and support him without ever uttering the words (and anything too direct would have made Sherlock run away, Irene had no doubt about that), perhaps he could have remained alone his whole life. Concentrating on the moment, on the case at hand, and on to the next case, and the next, and the next... Sometimes Irene wondered whether Sherlock was not hoping to be killed in his daredevil games; if deep down somewhere he didn't wish to be beaten once and for all, and lose the life he'd put on the line because he hadn't proved clever enough.

"Really?"

Or maybe it was just her own wishful thinking. Her pleasant smile threatened to turn into a smirk at the thought and she forced back the softness into her features.

But surely there must have been something masochistic about the (ex) consulting detective. How else could he have so skilfully, so thoroughly deleted one by one the memories of his attachment to Dr. Watson? If Sherlock and John Watson had met again under these circumstances, wouldn't they have felt as if they were in the presence of a stranger?

"Of course."

Sherlock definitely owed her for this, for having sent Mycroft Holmes to him, even if he hadn't realized it yet. John Watson too, and if Sherlock ever told him everything that had happened to him during those past three years, then Irene was sure that the doctor would know how indebted they were to her. But better not rejoice too much before the end of this. Sherlock could still mess everything up. Moran was right: in the end, only he could pass, or fail.

* * *

><p><em>Cause I love you more than I could ever promise.<br>And you take me the way I am._

* * *

><p>Sherlock had finally understood – or thought he'd understood, at any rate – and he was gone to finish the last act. The players were gathering, the play drawing to an end. Soon the curtain would fall.<p>

"Are we going somewhere, Miss?"

"No, Yi Lin. I am going alone."

She looked like a kicked puppy. Irene caressed her cheek and patted it.

"Be good in my absence, will you?"

"This is not wise, Miss... Today is June 11!"

"Oh, how terrible."

"No, you do not understand! We are leaving tomorrow, Miss! Taking airplane!"

Irene pinched her cheek and Yi Lin let out a little cry, then glared and blushed. Nice combination.

"I'll be back before tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow mor–"

During the cab ride, Irene checked her hair. Her lipstick. The tint of her eye-shade. It was funny how all mad geniuses she knew seemed to be misogynous. It wasn't so much that they hated the women around them as they appeared to feel detached from them. In other words, they did not give a damn. In this respect, the pets weren't any better, if the way John Watson had treated women before he met Mary Morstan was anything to go by. As for Moran... Irene wondered when was the last time he had properly touched anything, apart from his weapons and his guitar. The only person he spent time with was Sherlock.

She frowned. Now that would be disturbing. And inconceivable. She smiled assuredly. What man would resist _her_ to fall into the claws of something as pedestrian as a tiger hunter? It almost made her laugh out loud.

Not that Moran wasn't attractive – he was quite enticing in his own way. Certainly not Irene's type, though, too coarse. Not to mention he was a man and one was enough in her life, thank you very much.

She checked her face one last time in the mirror. Good. She was perfect.

"Here we go, Madam."

"Thank you."

She got off lightly and walked to the door. Looked up at the window and saw a light. Glanced at her watch. Smiled.

And rang.

It took less than a minute for the landlady to open the front door. Irene smiled kindly, ever the actress; the trick, she had found, was to merge with the mask.

"Hello. Are you ringing for 221A or 221B?"

"221B."

"Give me a minute."

"Oh I'll just go up, Blake must already be asleep, so we should be as quiet as possible, shouldn't we?"

She watched the landlady relax at her words and return her smile warmly.

"Yes, you're right. You know your way, then."

Irene nodded and thanked her before walking up the stairs. She had never walked up these stairs – down, once. Only once. It was unlikely she would ever set foot on them again.

She knocked on the living-room door very, very delicately, and pushed the door open before Mary even moved from the armchair in which she had been reading a newspaper. She was wearing white pyjamas under a huge woollen jumper that must have been beige once but whose colour was now quite undefinable. She had bags under her eyes but there was no trace of tension on her face and overall she looked rather tranquil. And startled.

"Good evening," Irene said quietly. Mary now stood in the middle of the room, a puzzled look on her amusing face.

"Uhm... Hi. I'm sorry, are you a friend of John's? Because he's gone out with a pal for the evening and–"

"It is you I have come to see," Irene cut in smoothly, taking off her coat and hanging it on one of the hat stands near the door. Mary stared, nonplussed.

"Sorry, have we met somewhere? Your face is familiar somehow but I can't pinpoint it..."

"We've never properly met, I'm afraid," Irene answered, pacing the living-room and looking around, remembering the place; seeing how it had changed, and how it still remained the same.

Next to the skull on the mantelpiece stood proud in its vase a sunflower. The Union Jack pillow was still there on the couch, next to a green frog-shaped rattle and a pinkish comfort blanket. In the kitchen the table was clean – there was nothing left of the chemistry set. There was a pile of books on it, along with a red laptop and an empty mug with a strange cartoon chick on it.

"Please make yourself at home," Mary said sarcastically, eliciting a smirk from Irene. "Can I offer you something to drink, perhaps?"

Irene turned to her and locked their gazes.

"A Bloody Mary," she replied.

She relished Mary's expression as recognition dawned on her. Her eyes widened and gleamed, and her lips parted slightly.

"You..."

The Woman smiled.

_"My name is Irene Adler. I have come to tell you that Sherlock Holmes is alive."_

* * *

><p><em>You take me the way I am.<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	46. Albo lapillo notare diem

****A/N: Just a reminder, this story has 52 chapters, 53 if you count - like FFnet does - the Moriarty tribute chapter. In other words, this is ******_**not**_****** the end of the story ;) I suppose you will be both happy and frustrated with this chapter. Please review :D  
><strong>**

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

_**Albo lapillo notare diem: **_"_to mark a day with a white stone", i.e. as a happy day_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XLV: <em>Albo lapillo notare diem<em>**

_Fire, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Open heart surgery<br>That is what you do to me  
>Cut me up, set me free<br>That is what you do to me_

* * *

><p>You turn your laptop on and there's this little music that precedes the airport voice saying "Welcome". Mary, standing by the fireplace and cutting off the dead stems of the daffodils, turns to glare at you, putting a finger on her lips.<p>

"Blake is sleeping, John!" she whispers. "You know what a hassle he is when he doesn't get his nap."

"Sorry," you reply with a sheepish smile.

She scoffs half-seriously and turns back to her flowers. You look at your screen.

_**You've got mail**_.

You click on it. Your eyes widen as they read the message.

**I'm on my way home. Do you want me to buy milk? SH**

The air rushes out of your lungs and you stand up abruptly, making Mary jump and knock down the vase which crashes on the wooden floor.

"John, what's wrong?"

You wake up with a gasp, your eyes opening to the darkness of Mary's living room. It takes you a few seconds to adjust to the dark and remember why you're here. Right. It was Mary's turn to keep Blake the previous night but she looked so tired you knew she needed to rest. Naturally, she refused. Consequently you ended up coming to her flat, as you so often did these days, and slept over. From the bedroom, Blake is crying. Your eyes fall on the red digits of the alarm clock. 2:15. No wonder Mary looks exhausted during the day.

"John?" Mary mumbles next to you. Her hair is dishevelled and her brow slightly creased. You wonder if she's still half sleeping.

"I'll go," you say, and become aware that you're trembling. There's a tremor in your voice.

Quickly you sit up and turn to get out of bed before Mary notices. But she's faster than you. Her hand on yours stops you from getting up even though she doesn't even grab it. She has this authority within her that can make the simplest gestures more compelling than an order. It is so gentle a touch that you cannot shove it off.

"John. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Bad dream."

"Again?"

"Always." You smile down at her, not sure she can make it out in the dark. She closes her eyes with a nod and lets go of your hand.

Blake is still crying in the room, but calms down instantly when you pick him up and cradle him. He looks like he's had a nightmare, his little chest heaving with subsiding sobs. You stroke his sweaty locks off his brow and start pacing the room slowly, with regular steps. Gradually, his breathing slows down and becomes less strained. He is watching you in the semi-darkness as if he were wondering what you were – giving you a look both curious and puzzled. Maybe he's just wondering what you are doing here. Usually when he sleeps in this room, it's his mother who comes at night. You smile at him.

"See? It's all right. Everything's all right. You can fall back to sleep, I'm here."

As you utter the words, you realize you're saying exactly what _you_ would like to hear, and maybe not something that would make sense for a baby. You swallow with some difficulty.

"I had a strange dream too," you go on to dispel the unease, "I don't know if that's what woke you up, but... I'm not sure I liked it all so much. My dream, I mean."

Blake blinks and tilts his head to the side.

"But it's all right. Even if you saw something scary, it's just a dream. So don't worry. It isn't real."

You are trying very hard to concentrate on what Blake's nightmare might have been, and not on what you dreamed yourself. _You've got mail._

"I can't sing you a lullaby, but I can keep talking if you want."

Blake's breathing is regular now, his face relaxed in a drowsy calmness.

"You're a very handsome baby, you know that? I mean it. I've seen plenty of babies at the clinic, so you can trust me."

Maybe you're not so good at this.

"I hope your hair colour will be like your mother's when you grow up. Not that mine isn't nice, but hers is more..." _Ashes and ambers_. "... well, it looks nicer."

OK. Definitely not good at this. But it's the middle of the night, how can you be expected to say anything clever? Or even vaguely coherent? You should learn to sing. You should learn a lullaby. That doesn't require much thinking.

_How many roads must a man walk down, before you call him a man?_

You shake your head. No. Not that. An image of Ron with his harmonica flashes across your field of vision and you close your eyes.

"I'll learn a lullaby for next time," you say, "but I have to warn you, my singing is terrible."

You think Blake is nodding until you see that in fact he is just dozing off. You smile.

"I wonder what your voice will sound like," you murmur, for yourself rather than for him. "It'll change, of course. I wonder how your voice will sound when you're a man."

_When you're a man_.

It's in moments like this that it all dawns on you. You are a father. This child in your arms will grow to be a man. A complete, independent person. One that will live and love and die. It makes you dizzy.

Or maybe you're just tired.

"Wait... If you have kids, then that means I'll be a grandfather?"

Blake's eyelids are going down and up, down and up again, as if he were trying to stay awake; and, fortunately (for you anyway), failing.

You start to count in your mind.

"But God, if you have kids at 25, I'll be, what... 70? And it's more likely you'll get them around 30 or even 35..."

Maybe you won't ever meet your grandchildren, if you have any. The thought makes you strangely sad. You never seriously thought about becoming a father, and if you hadn't been wounded in Afghanistan you would have remained a soldier your whole life. Somewhere you felt really useful, and where the urgency of the situations you were put in provided the thrill you craved. Not that you didn't hate it when you had to watch a man die because you lacked the necessary facilities.

"It might be a bit selfish on my part, but I really hope you'll never have to fight in a war," you tell your son. His head rolls back. He is sleeping again.

Delicately you place him back in his crib and make your way out of the room in silence. This flat is nice. You're so glad Mary got along with Mrs. Turner and could move somewhere so close to 221B. Of course it'd be better if she had her own room rather than sleeping in the living-room, but as soon as Blake gets old enough he can move into the extra bedroom in 221B and Mary can have the bedroom in her flat.

It's funny how you now catch yourself thinking so far in the future when just a year ago it was inconceivable to imagine what your life would be like in ten years, because you sincerely hoped it wouldn't last that long, you muse as you get back into bed next to Mary. It's funny how this woman broke into your life and managed to make you think about a future again, making it almost a duty for you, since now you're a father. And it's incredible the way she managed to do it without taking away what matters most to you and constitutes the very core of your identity now.

There's a strange tickling sensation on your right hand, the one Mary touched earlier. You close your eyes and let it take the shape of another hand, a larger, more awkward one, following the advice found on Google about dealing with people who get nightmares.

_It's all right. Everything's all right. You can fall back to sleep, I'm here._

* * *

><p><em>Now I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>I'm walking in a fire with you  
>I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>When I walk into you_

* * *

><p>"Why are you polishing your shoes? Going on a date?"<p>

"What? No!"

You look up at Mary to see a smirk on her face, and roll your eyes.

"I'm going out with Seb, remember?"

"Oh."

"Don't give me that look."

"Well," she says, running her hand through her hair and pulling on her short green skirt, "he's depressed, so be nice to him."

"Of course I'm nice to him, Mary. He's a friend."

"Yes, well, pay some extra attention, won't you?"

You shrug and continue polishing your shoe.

"The sketches he's done for your blog so far are really cool, you know. It's incredible how good he is at sketching Sherlock, too, don't you think? Just from those horrible newspapers' pictures, he really makes him come to life..." She bits her lips. "Sorry."

"Come on, I'm not that sensitive."

"Aren't you?" she teases, skipping off to the kitchen and pouring herself some tea in your RAMC mug.

"Hey, that's mine."

"Yes, well what's yours is mine until we divorce, _dear_," she replies, and sticks out her tongue at you. You chuckle and shake your head.

"You're impossible."

"Plus, I bought you a mug."

"With a weird chick on it, nobody would use _that_."

"I use it!"

"Yes, well..."

She puffs her cheeks and her pout makes you want to ruffle her hair. You imagine how cute she must have been when she was a child. And how tiring to deal with, too.

"Speaking of your blog," she goes on, and you want to say _When did we speak of it?_, "you haven't been writing a lot lately."

"I posted something on Monday."

"Yes, well that was almost a week ago."

You look at your shoe and put it back down with a satisfied nod to yourself before taking the other one and starting to polish it as well.

"I'm running out of cases," you tell her softly. "Don't know if Sherlock had many private clients before I moved in, but I've already written all of the investigations Greg told me about."

"Oh." Mary sits on the arm of the couch and plays with the spoon in her mug, her eyes fixed on her tea. "I guess you could always write about other things. I mean, not cases."

You arch an eyebrow and turn the shoe over. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Funny things about him, like the thing with the solar system. You know, stuff you write on a blog."

"Right, so memories about my dead flatmate. Yeah, everybody writes about that on their blog."

She rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"I don't want to, though."

"Why?"

You look at the brown leather pensively. "I don't know. Maybe I just feel there are some things I want to keep for myself, you know? If I come up with anything I want to share, I will. But I don't want to post random memories just like that. It'd be a bit pathetic."

You don't realize Mary got up until she is right next to you, taking your jacket from the hat stand and handing it over to you.

"Here. It's still a bit chilly outside."

You blink, then stand up as well. You're done with the shoes anyway. With a smile on your face, you take the jacket.

"Thank you, Mary."

She shrugs and drinks some tea.

"So where are you taking him this time? You're retracing, what case again? The thing with the Chinese Mafia right?"

You laugh as you put on your jacket and slip into your shoes.

"Right."

"But really, John, look after Seb a bit. I'm worried about him. He's still grieving, and you more than anybody can understand how he feels. Maybe. Kind of. You see what I mean."

You doubt you do, but you nod nonetheless.

"I can take care of Blake today, so take your time. And tell Seb I loooved his sketch for the Hound of Baskerville – it was really cool, and you looked handsome in it."

"Don't I always look handsome?"

"Yes, of course, _darling_. Very handsome. I love you best in your striped pyjamas."

"You..."

But before you can catch her, she's skipping off again, laughing. You let her go, and leave the flat.

* * *

><p><em>I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>I'm walking in a fire with you  
>I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>When I walk into you  
>Into you, into you, into you, into you, into you<em>

* * *

><p>"So this is where the flat of the second victim is?"<p>

"Yes. Sherlock pretended to have just moved in and used the neighbour's balcony to get in."

"Oh let's do that!" The idiot actually sounds excited. You shake your head.

"Come here. Look at the name tags. They're old – all of them. Nobody has moved in recently, they all know their neighbours. We can't use the same trick. And actually wait, we're not breaking in! There hasn't been any murder this time, so we have no excuse."

Sebastian pouts.

"Why should we need an excuse? This is fun."

"Yeah, right, coffee?"

"Don't try to change the subject! Did you have coffee with Sherlock that day?"

"No, but I want coffee now."

"Black, two sugars, was it?"

"Yeah... No. Wait. How do you know that?"

You hold the door of the coffee shop for him but stand there, not getting in, staring at him. He shrugs.

"You said it once when we were with Greg at the pub. Remember?"

"No."

"Well maybe Greg said it, can't remember. You take sugar in your coffee now because Sherlock used to. And you stopped putting milk in it."

"Actually, now I stopped putting sugar in it as well," you say, finally going in. You feel a bit stupid telling people, even friends, about such things. But pubs are strange places. Places where tongues speak faster than people, often without involving their brains in the process.

"It's fine," Seb tells you with a wide grin that says it isn't fine but it's funny so he likes it. "I mean it could be worse. You could be keeping the shirt of a dead guy under your pillow or something freaky like that!"

You glare, not very convincingly. As he takes your order, you start thinking about how Sherlock would have liked – or not – Sebastian had he met him. It was probably the kind of person who annoyed Sherlock the most, you concluded with a smirk. Easygoing, nonchalant even, having such a different definition of "fun" and "boredom"... Yes, definitely the kind of person who would grate on Sherlock's nerves the most.

"What are you thinking about, smiling to yourself like an idiot?"

"Nothing. What did you order?"

"A black coffee of course, that's what a real man gets."

You stare.

"Right."

"Come on, milk and sugar are for sissies!"

"I'm sure Sherlock would have appreciated."

He roars with laughter, which makes you look around, slightly embarrassed.

"Don't be so loud, will you?"

"Oh come on, are you ashamed of me or what?"

You're about to answer "Well, yes, a bit," when you remember Mary's words. _Look after Seb. I'm worried about him. He's still grieving, and you more than anybody can understand how he feels._

No. Probably not. You probably can't understand. Nobody understood when it was you. Nobody understood about Sherlock. It isn't something that can be understood, by anyone. _It's all right. Everything's all right. You can fall back to sleep, I'm here._

You close your eyes, briefly, and open them again.

"No, I'm not ashamed of you."

Seb blinks. "God you're serious. Why are you so serious all of a sudden? Relax, man! Is it something I said?"

"No. Sorry. I was just thinking."

"Yeah, well stop thinking if it puts you in such a mood. It's scary, man."

"Scary, is it?"

"Two black coffees."

"Thanks."

"Thanks."

"My treat."

"What? Why?"

Sebastian smirks. "Because you polished your shoes."

You blink, once, before realization hits you. "God, Mary told you–"

"She sent a text, yeah. _**John only ever polishes his shoes when he goes on a date. Lucky you!**_"

"Idiot," you mumble, not sure which of them you're referring to.

"So, since we're on a date, I'm paying for you."

"Right, forget that. Here." You hand the cash for your drink to the waitress who stands confused for a second before taking it.

"Aw, you're no fun, John. No fun at all."

"Anything else Mary told you?"

"Mmm... nope. Oh, actually, yeah. She said it's a good sign when you sit on the left, because it means you feel at ease, or better even, _at home._" He bats his eyelids and rests his elbows on the table, hands joined. "Do you feel at home when you're with me, John?"

You roll your eyes, not even bothering to answer, before remembering Mary's recommendations again.

"Would you like to go to the pub tonight?"

"What, to hear you ramble about Sherlock again?"

"Well, we don't have to talk about Sherlock."

Seb lets out what sounds to you like a somewhat bitter laugh – but this wouldn't make sense, so you just construe it as the confirmation that Seb isn't doing so well. "About what else, then?" he asks.

"I don't know. Ron, if you'd like." You tried to say it not too quietly, not too gently, because you know you certainly hated it when people used that tone with you. But you find it hard. You should have been more tolerant at the time, tried to put yourself is other people's shoes. That's easy to say now. You know you couldn't have put yourself in anybody's shoes back then. Too busy sinking in yours, in Sherlock...

"See?" Seb interrupts with a grin. "You can't stop thinking about Sherlock for a minute. And that's not even a figure of speech."

You roll your eyes. But he's probably right.

* * *

><p><em>Heart attack up your sleeve<br>You can make me believe  
>I would grow from the ground<br>After you burn me down_

* * *

><p>"I'll put Blake to bed, you take a shower and relax!"<p>

Or so Mary said. As you turn on the water, putting your hand under it to test the temperature, you wonder why people find showers relaxing. Maybe they don't, but it's one of those things you say because everybody says them. _I'll just take a shower and feel better. Let me take a good cup of coffee. _This didn't even mean the coffee would be good. Just one of those things you got used to saying without thinking.

"Why am I even thinking about this?" you mumble for yourself as you get under the shower. Sherlock never spent too much time in the bathroom. Just the necessary amount of time to be perfectly clean. Now that you think about it, it's funny that he didn't spend more time in baths, for instance. The way he used to lie sprawled on the sofa could have meant that he liked taking baths. But he didn't. Or at least, he never took any. He would have most likely found it extremely boring – he couldn't stay in the same place for too long, after all. And shooting the tiles would have caused more damage than shooting the wall. You smile.

Seb asked you about the smiley face. You realized you didn't know. Why would Sherlock draw a smiley face before shooting the wall? Why a smiley face? Was it like screaming: "I'm so bored I hate stupid happy people!"? You never gave it any thought, really. You never asked him. Why a smiley face?

There are so many things you never asked him. But you don't want to go there.

That's what Seb said, too. "There are so many things I never knew 'bout Ron. Never asked. Never wondered. Closest thing I had to a friend for a long time, didn't even know his favourite colour. Twas purple. Funny, ain't it? I would never have guessed. Purple."

What was Sherlock's favourite colour? Did he have a favourite colour? Why was it important?

It wasn't. It really wasn't. But once a person was dead, everything about them seemed to have a lot more importance than when they were alive.

You put your head under the water and take shampoo in your hand. "I _put product in my hair!" "You wash your hair, there's a difference."_

A lot of things came back to you while you were going on your little tours with Seb. He seemed very interested in the ones involving Moriarty – and you can't blame him. After all, to an outsider, it all looks more "fun" when there is a big bad villain, an archenemy worthy of the title. Makes things more interesting, more novel-like. Seb asked a lot about "Jim from IT" and wanted to see the lab where the very first meeting had taken place.

"I guess it wasn't really the first meeting, though," he said, quite obscurely for you. "I mean, it was just a disguise. A funny one, but just a disguise. That doesn't really count as a meeting."

"Yeah, well, the pool definitely counted as one."

So next of course you visited the pool. Not at night, because it was closed to the public. But eventually Seb insisted and you came back another day, around the time when you had actually been there the first time. It was weird, the feelings you got when you went back to all those places, recounting everything to a third party. It was like inviting a guest over to view your life. You didn't find it all that pleasant at the beginning, but little by little you found it easier and easier to talk to Seb. He was easy to talk to. He was interested, but not too much; sympathizing, but not too much. Maybe a little _too_ jeering, but that was fine, because there was fondness in his teasing. So you shared your memories of Sherlock with him, knowing full well that you gave away much about yourself in the process.

You shiver under the warmth of the shower.

Death is a strange thing. It takes people violently, out of the blue – and even when it isn't so much out of the blue it is violent. Unexpected because unacceptable. You still remember the feeling you had when you learned that Charlie was dead. You remember thinking how horrible it would be if you ever had to hear about Sherlock's death.

Unimaginable.

Unthinkable.

You can never know beforehand.

Even if you imagine the worst, it will never amount to what it truly feels like. It will always be different, like a different, unexpected taste in your mouth.

You miss him. It still surprises you how much you miss him, even now. It's like a pain somewhere in your body, or something itching – you think it'll subside at one point, that it will go away eventually. And then years later you realize it never did. You got used to it. The pain, or the itching, has become part of you. The people you've met since then cannot imagine you without it. It is as if it was printed on your face, and without it people don't even recognize you.

Would Sherlock recognize you? Would you recognize him, after having deconstructed and reconstructed him so many times in your mind and in your speech and on paper and on your blog? Sherlock is everywhere and he is nowhere.

You rinse your hair and take the soap in your hand before running it over your body. Sherlock had been a baby once. His mother, his father too, perhaps, had held him in their arms. Had watched him grow. We all know our children will die, yet we don't know. We don't really know.

For the first time, you think about Sherlock's mother, who from what you know is still alive, somewhere. Alive while her son is dead. It never crossed your mind. You thought about Mycroft, and reckoned he must have suffered, but felt like putting a bullet in his head nonetheless. Now you're calmer, and even though you won't admit it out loud, almost ready to forgive him. Which means you've probably forgiven him already.

You never knew what to forgive meant. Nobody knows until it happens, maybe. "I will never forgive you" is such an easy thing to say. I'll never forgive you. Never.

Never, forever. Why do people even use those words? They're not eternal. Nobody is.

The pain of losing Sherlock is what made you tell Mycroft you'd never forgive him. What made you feel you never could, and that you would shoot him the moment you saw him. But the pain of losing Sherlock is also what made you forgive him in the end. The pain that swallows all. Overwhelming. Eventually it ate up your hatred as well. You still think Mycroft was a fool and must have miscalculated something somewhere, because you know he never wanted Sherlock dead. He had been conceited and stupid. That was all there was to it.

"I know you don't hate him anymore," Mary said a few weeks ago. Less, perhaps. You're losing track of time.

"Why?"

She smiled one of those smiles that made you want to hug her.

"Because you don't need to anymore."

You let the warmth of the water surround you, enveloping and penetrating. _You don't need to anymore_. Maybe showers can be relaxing. Thing is, when you relax, the emptiness within you starts screaming. It's like a hole in your chest. You never believe metaphors until they happen to you. You never believe hyperboles can be real until you experience them.

_There's a hole in my chest_.

Such a trite thing to say. It doesn't do the feeling credit. _There's a hole in my chest. A hole. _

But the hole has a name, and is best left unfilled.

You smile, and turn off the water.

* * *

><p><em>Now I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>I'm walking in a fire with you  
>I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>When I walk into you_

* * *

><p>You miss Sherlock's texts for many reasons.<p>

One of them is how troublesome it is to answer a call in some situations – and Sherlock _never_ called. Well. He only called once.

You avert your gaze as if looking away from the cashier in Tesco will help you avoid the memories assaulting your brain. _This is my note._

"53£, sir."

"_John?_"

"Yes, hold on a second Mary, I'm paying."

"Are you paying by card?"

"Yes."

"_Paying what?_"

"I'm at Tesco."

"Please enter your code."

"_Ooh what did you buy?_"

"A lot of things."

"I'm sorry, sir, it says you entered the wrong number."

"What? No!"

"_Did you buy tomatoes?_"

"Mary one second, please."

"Would you like to pay by cash?"

"No, this is my card, I know the code, thank you."

"_Are you shouting at the machine, John?_"

"Well let's try again then."

"I'm not shouting at anyone!"

"_Did you buy tomatoes?_"

Damn the tomatoes. The people in the queue behind you are glaring, as if it was your fault that you couldn't get your code right when speaking on the phone. You're sure you entered the correct code, actually. Yes, you definitely entered the correct code.

"Yes, I did get tomatoes," you answer as the cashier finally hands you the ticket and you can grab your many bags and go. "Look Mary I'm just getting out of Tesco and I'm carrying quite a lot of things, I'll be home any minute so can I–"

But you don't finish your sentence as a man runs right into you, just as you step out of the supermarket. Or maybe it's you who ran into him. You groan.

"Sorry I–"

You stop as you see that the man is a hunchback, and quite old to boot. He fell and the books he was carrying are scattered around him. Now you feel even worse. You help him to his feet and start picking up the books.

"I'm terribly sorry sir, I wasn't–"

"Can't you watch where you're going, young man?!"

He's furious. You would be too, if some guy speaking on the phone just ran into you while you were carrying so many books. You actually wonder how the old man could have carried so many at a time.

"_John, is everything all right?_"

"Are you bloody blind or did you not care that you'd make an old man stumble on the pavement?!"

"Look sir, I'm sorry. Here, your books."

"You broke my cane!"

"I'm terribly sorry sir. Mary I'll call you back."

"_John-_"

"My name isn't Mary!"

"I never said that."

"Are you deaf too? Can't you hear that this is a man's voice? Don't I look like a man to you?"

"I never–"

"Just get out of the way, you're preventing people from getting in and out, standing there like an idiot. The young these days, bloody blind, can't look where they're going, stupid people with their stupid phones..."

And off he walks, still ranting.

_What. The. Hell. _

And yet _you_ get the glares! You'll never go to Tesco at the rush hour again. This is crazy. People are crazy. Why are they looking at you as if _you_ were crazy?

In your hand, your phone is vibrating again. Mary. You sigh.

"Yes."

"_John?_"

You definitely miss Sherlock's texts.

* * *

><p><em>I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>I'm walking in a fire with you  
>I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>When I walk into you_

* * *

><p>Of course the moment you hung up the phone with Mary it vibrates again. Greg, this time.<p>

You seriously consider not answering.

Then you remember how much he's been there for you these past two years, and you take his call.

"Hey, Greg. It's been a while."

"John! Glad to talk to you. Yeah, it's been a while. That's why I was calling, actually. Feel like going to the pub tonight?"

"I'm sorry, I really can't. Had a very long day, and went out drinking with Seb just two days ago."

"How is he coping?"

"He'll be fine. I mean, we can never be sure with him, but..."

"Well I guess you could tell."

You frown. Why do people keep saying that? Why do they keep assuming that just because you lost somebody close to you you'll understand everybody's pain and grief as they go through bereavement?

Sherlock was your friend, but he was more than a friend.

Wasn't a lover. You can't say you've lost your other half, because people who didn't know him, who didn't know you, you and him, together, wouldn't understand. And even people who did know you.

Ron was Seb's friend. But this means nothing to you. Why would it?

You don't know what their relationship was like.

You don't know what it felt like to be with Ron in private, to talk about everything and anything with him.

You don't know what it feels like to stand before his grave and think you'll never play whist with him again.

You cannot know.

"John?"

"Yes, sorry. Bit tired, that's all."

"I understand. Well next time, then!"

"Yeah, sorry Greg."

"No problem. I'll be happy to see you any time."

You smile. Thank him. Hang up. You think you'll be happy to see him too.

It's funny, the first time you met him, he didn't strike you as especially gentle. He didn't strike you as especially kind. You found him honest and a little father-like in the way he handled Sherlock, but not in a bad way. Not in a patronizing way. Still, he turned out to be a much greater friend than you ever imagined.

"I'm home!"

"Welcome home!"

You stare at Sebastian who is sprawled on your couch, then look at Mary who is preparing Blake to go out. She glances at you and her eyes tell you to be nice to the intruder.

"I was just going to the park with Blake. Would you like to come with us?" she offers.

You shake your head, taking your jacket off.

"I've had quite a day. I'll stay home if you don't mind."

She laughs. "That's all right. When I go back to work and you take your paternity leave, you'll have all the time you want to bring him to the park."

She winks at you and you kiss her on the cheek as she bounces towards her coat.

"Aren't you lovey-dovey," Seb grumbles from the couch. "You could say hi, you know."

"Hello, Sebastian. What's with the mood?"

"His girlfriend in Paris had a cat, and he loved the cat," Mary says as she opens the door.

"What happened?"

"They broke up. He misses the cat."

"She was so sweet! If you'd seen her–"

"The cat was a she," Mary specifies.

"Don't you want to go to the park, Seb?" you cut in, putting all the shopping bags on the kitchen table. Seb sighs dramatically.

"You don't want me here then! You don't see me as a friend. I understand, I'll leave, and never come back!"

"I'm off!" Mary chimes in from the staircase.

"See you tonight. I'll prepare dinner."

You hear her laugh down the stairs, and wait until the front door is closed. You like her step. Dynamic. You see she has left tea in the pot for you and smile. It's great the way you both seem to understand each other, share the same references now... _I'll prepare dinner. _She laughed. She probably heard behind it _Let's have dinner_. Laughed because that's not what it is. Sometimes, you wonder if you have not been terribly cruel to her.

"Finally you can relax, huh?" Seb says more quietly. It's funny how quickly he can change moods. Maybe he never actually changes. Maybe he's just acting when he whines all the time. Still, you think it's truly part of his personality. The theatrics.

"Want a beer?"

"Oh I love you! Didn't dare tell Mary I didn't feel like having tea..."

"Ha ha! She can be quite persuasive sometimes," you concede, walking to the fridge to get him a beer. You'll be fine with tea. She knew that's what _you_ would feel like drinking.

Just when you are about to sit down in the armchair with your mug and get some rest, you hear someone ring at the front door. You pray it'll be for Mrs. Hudson. You hear her open the door, then hear her steps in the staircase. Damn.

"John?"

"Come in, Mrs. H!"

"Hello dear. There's someone at the door for you. He's a bit strange, but he's insisting."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know. He is of a certain age, I'd say, a little hunchbacked."

You groan. How did he find your address?

"Friend of yours?" Seb asks.

"Not exactly," you grumble.

Sebastian shrugs and stands up, going down the corridor – probably to the loo – as if he owned the place. You roll your eyes.

"Should I bring him up?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"Yes, please do."

If he wants you to pay for his bloody cane, then fine. You'll pay. You just want to have some time to rest in your own flat without people barging in – is that too much to ask?

"Hello, sir," the old man says once your landlady has brought him to your door.

"Hi again," you answer, and then force yourself to stand up to greet him and sound a little more amicable. Or at least polite. "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to apologize for my behaviour earlier. When you ran into me you dropped your wallet – it was in my books when you gave them back to me, I suppose you didn't notice."

"My wallet?"

Of course you hadn't noticed. How was that even possible? Surely you'd have noticed if you had picked up your wallet with the books. You stare at the man suspiciously.

"Here," he says, handing you the wallet. "I realize I might have been a little rude. I hate people talking on the phone in public areas and who don't pay any attention to their surroundings, you see, but–"

"Hi!" Seb says as he comes back to the living-room and drops back onto the sofa with a thump. The old man stares.

Is he going to burst out again and go on about how young people don't know how to behave these days? Seb isn't even that young. He looks young. But you don't look young anyway, and the old man called you young.

"Look, it's fine. I'm sorry I ran into you. Would you like compensation for your cane, perhaps?"

"No, no! That's not why I came. Just wanted to give you back your wallet. I'll go now."

You feel a pang of guilt.

"I'm sorry I was a bit rude myself. Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea?"

"No, thank you, really, I'll be on my way."

"Let me walk you back to the door, then."

"No, no! I can find my way."

He keeps giving to Seb strange glances that almost look like glares. Perhaps he's a bit mad after all. He does seem somewhat lunatic, what with the sudden change of behaviour.

You're glad when he finally goes, after some more fuss of "Please stay for a cup or let me walk you to the door" "No no I'll be fine thank you for your time my apologies again" etc.

"God, what a day," you say once you've closed the door again and sat back into the armchair. "Sometimes you think you should have remained in bed all day, feels like it would have been less trouble."

"Isn't it like that every day?" Seb asks from the couch. You chuckle.

"You're impossible."

"Yeah, I've been told. You're repeating yourself."

"Whatever."

"Fine, whatever."

Your eyes meet and you can't help but laugh again, quietly. The conversations you have with Seb are barely conversations at all. Yet it feels comfortable. When he's not being annoying, his presence is actually quite pleasant. Lately he's come rather often to your flat, but he isn't much of a bother. In fact, if you don't pay attention to him you hardly notice him at all. You never had that kind of relationship with Harry, even though she's your sister. But you think that it might be similar to what brotherhood feels like, not minding the presence of the other. Well. When he's not being a chatter-box, that is. Seb is such a fickle character, he changes mood so easily... But maybe because he's been down, recently he's rarely been irritating.

"Lot of patients?" he asks.

"Definitely more than usual. Too many. I'm so tired."

"Ha ha! Can you believe it? That civilian life can be more tiring than the war?"

You look at him. He doesn't mention the war very often. As you observe his face, you can't tell whether he's being nostalgic or not. If Mycroft were here, would he know from one look if Seb missed the war or was traumatized by it? If Sherlock...

"Do you miss the war, John?"

You freeze a second, then blink.

"No. I guess not. Not anymore."

Maybe you do. You're not sure. And you're not sure you want to talk about it with Seb of all people. It's funny, because perhaps _he_ would understand. You don't know many people who understood – people in London, civilians. Mycroft does. Sherlock did. You swallow your tea with some difficulty. You miss him. You still miss him so much. It almost surprises you when you think about it.

You look up and see Seb has been watching you. But it doesn't really make you self-conscious. You don't mind. Whatever he sees, it can never be worse than what you let out when you're having a drink in a pub with him and Greg.

"Do _you_ miss it?" you ask.

Seb grins like a kid.

"I miss the jungle. I liked it there. Animals are very different from people, y'know."

"Are they?"

If he hears the sarcasm in your voice, he ignores it.

"Why didn't you stay there, then?" you go on, closing your eyes, focusing on the warmth spreading from the cup of tea to your body. You hear Seb stand up and cross the living-room.

"I missed people," he says, and you can almost hear the smile in his voice.

"And now you miss animals."

"Yeah, I miss the game."

At this you open your eyes. But then you understand he meant _game_, as in potential preys. The animals in the jungle. Not _game_ like it would have been understood by Sherl...

"Shall I play the guitar for you?" Sebastian inquires. Only then do you notice he is already holding it. That's probably why he crossed the room. Went to get it.

"Sure, make yourself at home."

This time you know he's heard the sarcasm. He laughs.

"Still energetic, aren't ya?"

You close your eyes again.

"Just don't make too much noise, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

You smirk. He starts playing. The melody isn't bad. It rarely is on the guitar. He starts singing.

"This is the end, beautiful friend, this is the end, my only friend, the end of our elaborate plans, the end of everything that stands, the end – no safety or surprise, the end, I'll never look into your eyes again. Can you picture what will be, so limitless and free, desperately in need of some stranger's hand in a desperate land? Lost in a Roman wilderness, and all the children are insane, all the children are insane, waiting for the summer rain..."

You don't really listen to the lyrics. You don't really hear the music. Before you know it, you have fallen asleep.

* * *

><p><em>Into you, into you, into you, into you, into you<br>Into you, into you, into you, into you, into you_

* * *

><p><strong>Phenomenology is not science. <strong>_Experimentum crucis._

I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so...

**Try tabula recta with ideograms instead of letters. Could be fun. **

Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.

"**You have beguiled me with a counterfeit**

I can always predict the fortune cookies.**  
>Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried,<strong>

You're worried they're right about me.**  
>Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn;"<strong>

Why would I need you?

**Remember Keith Simpson.**

Do people actually read your blog?

**Plaintext Key = Ciphertext**

That, er... thing that you... that you did, that, um... you offered to do...that was, um... good.

**Ciphertext Key = Plaintext**

Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid.

**Ciphertext1 Ciphertext2 = Plaintext1 Plaintext2**

Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?

**(Plaintext1 Plaintext2) Plaintext1 = Plaintext2**

Punch me, in the face. Didn't you hear me?

**Plaintext1 Ciphertext1 = Key **

I'd be lost without my blogger.

**Delete Hume. Whewell more useful. Not to mention Darwin.**

I _had_ to. It was an experiment.

"**'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost  
>In this which he accounts so clearly won."<strong>

Heroes don't exist. And if they did...

**Take a book many would have but none would think of.**

I don't have friends.

**Nulla imago habeo. **

I've just got one.

**We reach. We grasp. And what is life in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow – misery.**

Me?! There's nothing wrong with me!

John! Wake up! John! I'm right here!

This phone call – it's, er... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?

Goodbye, John.

_**John! Wake up! John! I'm right here!**_

_**I'M RIGHT HERE!**_

The vase that was on your bedside tables falls to the floor and shatters as you sit up abruptly. You are vaguely aware that you must have knocked down something but you're not sure whether you have dreamt it or not. The smell of roses brings you back to reality. Right. The roses.

_Experimentum crucis._

You run a hand in your hair. Sweaty. Your breathing is strained, as if you had been running all night. The red digits of the clock catch your eye. 4:15. You sigh and fall back on the mattress.

_The skull just attracts attention._

They are white roses. Present from Chris and Harry to Mary when they came to dinner last week.

_You have beguiled me with a counterfeit._

Mary hates roses. Even white ones.

"We can't just throw them away."

"Well, actually, we can. They'll never know."

But Mary shook her head. "No, it's not right."

"Then just leave them here."

"But I spend time here too."

At this point you stared. "Right. What do you want to do, then?"

"Won't you put them in your room?" Puppy dog eyes. Her huge smile. Batting her eyelids. "They'll wither soon anyway and then we can get rid of them."

"Oh fine, just put the vase on my bedside table."

And off she had skipped towards the room. Well. So much for keeping the flowers until they withered. What are you going to do with them now?

_You're worried they're right about me._

You sit back up. It's not as if you can go back to sleep now anyway. Taking a deep breath, you get out of bed, on the other side of the bed to avoid stepping on the glass shards of the vase.

_You are forsworn, forsworn._

You go to the kitchen, come back to the room, clean up. It takes a while. You shouldn't have accepted to take the roses in your room in the first place. The fragrance is too strong, almost erasing this much more precious smell. His.

_That was, um... good._

It's terrible how a person fades away in time even when all you do is think about them.

It's terrible how slowly but surely his smell will disappear from everything that once belonged to him.

_I'm afraid, John. _

Terrible how you will grow unsure about the sound of his voice, still able to recognize it among all others, but not quite capable of replaying it in your own mind. You'll miss some specific inflection, forget one particular intonation – until nothing is left of his voice except the feel of it in your memory. An illusion.

_Plaintext Key = Ciphertext_

You ran out of cases. All the ones you could hear about anyway. Perhaps there are others. Some only Sherlock or his secret clients could tell you about. Unreachable. Lost to you, irreversibly.

_Whose idea was that?_

You stand back up and go back to the kitchen to throw away what is left of the vase and the flowers. Go back to the room, turn off the heater, open the window. It is chilly outside. A shiver runs down your spine and you feel your muscles tighten then relax. You close your eyes.

_Didn't you hear me? _

You feel like reading Sherlock's notebook again, even though by now you know it by heart – even the random elements, if one can call them random. The chemistry references, the old physics books... You're just reconstructing a man who never existed from scraps and you know it, but still you cannot stop yourself. This is why you try not to give too much unity to what you write. Just blog posts, or your own journal. You cannot give a full portrait of Sherlock, cannot unravel his entire psychology for everyone to read and understand. You don't understand it yourself. Not everything. Not much, in fact. Just scraps.

_I'd be lost without my blogger._

Closing the door to the room, leaving the window open, you go to the living-room and fall into the armchair, skipping through his notebook again. You like his handwriting when he was a child. You can't remember how it looked when you met him – he usually sent texts, didn't leave notes. Even his "note" was a phone call. You've got nothing to hang on to.

_It was an experiment._

You remember how frustrating it felt after Irene Adler's presumed death – how strange for you to realize you knew nearly nothing about your flatmate. Nor did Mrs. Hudson. You'd asked Greg too, at the time – not Mycroft, of course – but in the end nobody knew much about the consulting detective. Perhaps because there wasn't much to know. Mycroft had kindly made it quite clear that his brother did not have much experience in the sexual area, but that did not mean Sherlock never had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend.

_Strange to think how much King John hath lost._

You can't really imagine it, though. And when you asked him, it was quite plain that he was not interested in the least in this type of things. Not exactly his area. You smile.

You really don't know. He died all too soon. You expected danger from all over the place, but somehow it never crossed your mind that he might die for real. That he would be the one to lose his life.

_A book many would have._

You open your own notebook and start writing. Put down the date. The time.

_We reach. We grasp. _

**I don't even know what his favourite colour was. Or if he had a favourite colour. **

_John! Wake up!_

**I never asked him about the smiley face. I never even wondered. **

_And what is life in our hands at the end?_

**Why a smiley face? **

_There's nothing wrong with me!_

**Maybe his favourite colour was purple. He had a purple shirt. **

_A shadow._

**Or maybe it was black. I wonder what Blake's favourite colour will be, if he'll have one.**

_John! I'm right here!_

**I wonder why he chose to work as a consulting detective. Why he decided to have a job that would lead him to analyse _people,_ of all things.**

_Or worse than a shadow..._

**I wonder what it tells us about him. **

_John!_

**If it tells us anything. **

_...misery._

* * *

><p><em>You burn me up, you burn me up<br>You burn me up, and I love it  
>You burn me up, you burn me up<br>You burn me up, and I love it_

* * *

><p>"I wish you a prompt recovery, Mrs. Caldwell."<p>

"Thank you, Dr. Watson! I hope I'll be better for next week, my daughter is coming with her husband and her little boys! It'd be a pity if I wasn't well."

"You'll be better, I promise. Just take your medicine."

"She's got lovely little boys, you know. She wanted a girl, but her boys...! They're adorable, if only you saw them..."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Is this your boy in the picture?"

You glance at the framed picture on your desk. A great picture, with a dishevelled Mary holding a grinning Blake in her arms. They are both luminous, thanks to their smiles rather than to the sunlight filling the picture.

"Yes, it's my son."

"And your wife, I presume? She's lovely, really lovely."

Everything seems to be lovely with her.

"Yes, Mrs. Caldwell. She's lovely. Get well soon!"

"I didn't know you were married!"

"Yes, well."

"It's a lovely boy, lovely!"

What would people say if you had a picture of Sherlock on your desk? You stop yourself from chuckling, trying to keep your face in check. _What_ picture anyway? Those from the press, with the hat? _Who is it? My dead flatmate. _…

"And what's his name?"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock? That's peculiar. But lovely, of course."

"I mean Blake."

"What?"

"His name is Blake."

"I thought you said–"

"You should go to the chemist's before it closes, Mrs. Caldwell."

"Oh dear, you're right! I hadn't noticed it was so late. Thank you, doctor!"

"Goodbye, Mrs. Caldwell."

You look at the picture. Sherlock wouldn't smile in a picture. He would frown or glare and scare all your patients away. You shake your head with unrestrained tenderness.

How did Sherlock look when he was a baby? Could a boy as adorable as Blake turn into a man like Sherlock, who only smiled perfunctorily most of the time?

God, Sherlock must have been a hassle as a child. Probably always exploring. Experimenting. Must have been exhausting for his mother.

Did his mother take care of him? Or did he have a nurse? Perhaps you should ask Mycroft. He would stare. Give you the look, for sure. The one that says _You are acting like a stalker and if you were anyone else I would certainly not tolerate it. _

"John?"

"Oh, hi Laura."

"Finished your day?"

"I think so, yes. You?"

"Me too! Would you like to go out for a drink?"

"Sorry, I can't tonight. I have to do some grocery shopping."

"But what if we have dinner together?"

You look at her. Laura is pretty, exactly your type. But this time, with Sherlock _and_ Mary, you know there is no room left. You are not enough of a cynic to give this woman hope when you're not even sure you could desire her. As for _sentiments_...

"Look, Laura–"

"Oh it's fine if you'd rather we went out another night, of course."

"I can't. Not tonight, not any other night. I'm sorry."

She blinks. It is all the more difficult as she seems genuinely hurt.

"I thought you were divorced, I'm sorry if I–"

"No, no. In fact, we do intend to get a divorce. It's just... Well, you know, it has to be two years... Anyway. But I'm not... ready. I won't ever be. I'm flattered, but–"

"If it's about the child, I don't mind. I love children, so–"

"Laura, it's not about Blake."

"Then do you still love her?" she asks, her tone almost accusatory. You sigh. There is no easy way to do this.

"I do. I love her. But I'm not in love with her."

"Then–"

"You see I'm in love with a man, who died nearly three years ago," you say with large smile.

Laura drops the file she was holding.

* * *

><p><em>Now I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>I'm walking in a fire with you  
>I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>When I walk into you_

* * *

><p><strong>June 11, 2015.<br>Today is the last "tour"**, you write in your journal. **We already retraced all of the cases I wrote about when Sherlock was alive – all the ones we did together. And now we finally got to "A Study in Pink". **

"John? Are going to take your shower now or later?" Mary asks from the kitchen.

"Probably when I get back."

**It's been a little strange, doing all these "tours" without Sherlock around. I wouldn't have accepted to do it if Mary hadn't insisted. She says it helps Seb change his mind. I don't know if it does, but it certainly doesn't change mine.**

"Are you going somewhere?"

"What? Just a minute."

"Oh, you're writing in your journal. Sorry."

"I'm going out with Seb tonight," you answer, finishing quickly:

**No more cases to recount, no more cases to retrace with Seb. I am running out of scraps. **

**Well, I suppose I could always start reading the complete works of Hume, Whewell and Darwin...**

You close your notebook and join Mary in the kitchen.

And stare.

"Is this _loam_?"

"Yes!" she says excitedly, not looking up from her pot. "Jerry gave me rosemary cuttings so I'm trying to plant them!"

"Rosemary?"

"Yes, for cooking! Don't you like rosemary?"

"I do. But can it grow _indoors_?"

"Oh I'll put it on the window that gives onto the backyard," she replies brightly.

You smile. _That's rather optimistic. _

"What? You don't think I can grow a plant?"

You raise your hands defensively.

"No, no, that's not it. When will it come out?"

"Around next April."

"We'll see then."

"See! You don't believe I can do it!"

You chuckle and serve yourself some tea, in that awful mug with the chick on it.

"Is Seb coming to pick you up?" she asks.

"No, I'm meeting him at Angelo's. If he expects me to remember what route Sherlock took on roofs and back streets to catch the cab, though, he'll be disappointed."

"Ha ha! I'm sure you'll manage. Your knowledge of London is impressive."

"It doesn't mean I can remember the route _he _took. Maybe I can. Not sure I want to do it again, though.."

She shakes her head, smiling.

"Is Seb doing better?"

"I have no idea," you reply truthfully.

"John..."

The warning in her voice is only half-serious. You roll your eyes.

"What? I don't read minds, you know!"

She laughs.

"What happened to the roses in your room?"

"Well..."

"When I went to put Blake to bed I saw they were gone."

"You don't have to explain why you went to my room, you know."

She nods. "But I should anyway."

You frown.

"Is something wrong?"

"What? No. Nothing's wrong. Where did the flowers go?"

"Crashed to the floor. Knocked them down when I woke up from a dream, I'm sorry. Did you like that vase?"

"Not particularly. But buy another one, won't you?" And here she goes with her huge grin again, tilting her head to the side. She's both funny and adorable, with that expression and wearing this large greyish jumper that's too big for her. You chuckle.

"Right, I'll do that."

"Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing. Your jumper."

"Oh, that again? I told you already!" She stands up and washes her hands, putting the rosemary pot away proudly.

"Yeah, yeah. Your grandmother knitted it for your grandfather. Family thing. Real wool and all that. Do you think it was beige once?"

She sticks her tongue at you and walks to the sofa, dropping in it, rolling on her belly and grabbing a newspaper on top of the pile.

"Just go, you meanie. Your date will be waiting."

"Seb's not my–"

"Shh, you'll wake up the baby!"

You ruffle her hair and kiss her knitted brow. "Don't sulk. Your jumper is beautiful. Goes so well with your white pyjamas and your eyes..."

"Just go!" she says, laughing.

You exchange an amused glance. Mary gets up and settles in the armchair.

"Don't wait for me tonight," you say when you are at the door. "We might be a bit late."

She waves her hand and doesn't bother answering. She probably already began to read an article. You smile, and shake your head fondly before closing the door behind you.

* * *

><p><em>I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>I'm walking in a fire with you_

* * *

><p>In the end, Seb still insisted you took a cab to Roland-Kerr Further Education College, retracing Sherlock's steps before you found him thanks to Jennifer Wilson's phone. And now here you are.<p>

"The cleaners must still be in," you grumble. "We shouldn't go in."

"Aw, come on! Didn't you go in when you followed Sherlock here?"

"Well, yes, but he was with a _murderer_."

You don't know why you told the truth to Seb of all people, but one night when you were talking about the war, about shooting people, about life, and death – this was after Ron's untimely one – you'd told him that you had shot the cabbie that night. Seb hadn't seemed surprised. He hadn't judged you. Hadn't especially approved, either. Just nodded quietly in acknowledgment.

"Playing hero, then? John the Saviour!"

You ignore him and walk towards the building.

"Yeah, that's how I like you! So tell me, how did happen?"

"I don't know. I told you already. I wasn't there until the very last moment."

He pouts.

"But surely he must have told you."

"We didn't talk much about it."

"Dull."

"Don't mimic him or I won't bring you in."

"Fine, fine! But try to tell me the story as we go!"

You sigh.

"Fine. Well. Here is what Sherlock told the police – but you know that already, you've read my blog."

"John, this is a tour! Repeating it all is the point!"

"Well, not _all_ of it, I hope," you say jokingly.

Seb doesn't answer.

"The cabbie held him at gunpoint – or so he said, I think he lied. Sherlock had followed him all the way here, I think the cabbie might have showed him the gun, but he didn't need to threaten him with it."

Sebastian nods. "I see."

"So then he brought him to a room upstairs."

"Let's go?"

"OK. But be quiet. We have no excuse to be here."

It is strange walking these corridors knowing Sherlock walked them more than four years ago, not even thinking about John, just obsessed by the serial-killer and the way he managed to bring his victims to commit suicide.

"You'd think they have strengthened security since last time," Seb comments, hands in his pocket and looking around like a tourist.

"Here is the room," you say as you enter it. Sebastian looks round.

"So this is where you saw Sherlock?"

You nod. You can almost see him now. Your chest tightens.

"Sorry, can we go now?"

"What? Yeah, sorry mate." He puts a friendly hand on your shoulder. "Just show me where you stood, won't you?"

You nod a little stiffly.

It is in silence that you go out and through the other entry, the one you took when you didn't know which one Sherlock had taken.

"When I got here, I just ran to one of the doors randomly. I couldn't know which one Sherlock had taken. Well, had he been in my stead, he might have guessed, but..."

"Ha ha! So you just ran in, looking for him?"

"Yeah. And I ended up here."

You push open the doors to the room from which you shot the man. A man you never even talked to. Just because Sherlock was about to die – maybe – because of him.

"This room looks just like the one where Sherlock was!" Seb comments.

"Yeah. There's symmetry in the architecture, I think."

"Symmetry, is it?" Sebastian says, walking to the window. "And so this is the gun you used."

You turn to him and stare. In his hands, there is your gun; or a gun the exact same model as yours.

"What the–"

"I hope you don't mind me taking it!"

"Of course I do! I didn't show it to you so you could... Give it back. Now. We're going back."

"Aw common. We're here and I went through the trouble of taking the gun too!"

"That's completely irresponsible of you. Thank God it's not loaded."

"Let's load it, then!" Seb exclaims with excitement. Your eyes widen as he indeed recharges your gun.

"What do you think you're–"

"I just wanted to imagine the scene. So you were standing here when you shot?"

"Yes. Please unload it now, Seb."

"Wow, that was quite a shot, man! You must be really talented."

"Thanks. Unload the gun, now. And give it back."

"There's no rush," he replies nonchalantly, sitting down at the table. You look around nervously.

"We shouldn't stay too long. The cleaners could come in any time."

"But we've come all the way here! I want you to show me."

"Show you what?"

"Come on, sit down."

You sigh.

"Fine. But put the gun away. And we're going after that."

He smiles. Then he takes out of his pocket a bottle with two pills inside. You freeze.

"Is this how it looked?"

"How do you..."

"Is this how it looked, John?"

"Yes. It looked exactly like that. How did you know?"

Seb simply smiles. You swallow.

"Have you been talking to Greg?"

"No, John," he answers, taking one of the two pills out of the bottle. "I haven't been talking to Greg." He takes out of his pocket another identical bottle, and puts the pill in it. "Actually, this is how it looked exactly. Two pills. Two bottles. The other victims only got one bottle, but Sherlock was special, you see."

"How do you know that?" Your voice isn't trembling, but there is an edge to it. This isn't right. Something isn't right. Actually there's something very wrong.

"Won't you play, John? Play the game."

"Enough," you say, standing up abruptly. "Let's go, Seb. I don't know what you're playing at."

"Playing? I'm not playing. Not yet. Sit down, John."

"No. Let's go."

He sighs dramatically and aims your gun at you. Your own gun. You look at it, then at Seb, then at the gun again.

"Seb, what are you doing?"

"Sit down, John," he orders, his tone final. "The gun's loaded, you know it is. I loaded it before your very eyes. Now. Sit. Down."

You comply, speechless. Already you can feel anger starting to bubble in your chest, behind your astonishment. Seb's gaze does not waver. His grip on the gun is firm.

"What do you think you're doing, Seb?"

"So. Shall we play, now?"

"Answer me!" you shout, not giving a damn about the cleaners anymore. Then you shiver when you think about what Seb might do to them if they entered the room now, and ask again in an even voice: "Answer me."

"Then ask the right questions," he retorts phlegmatically.

"Why are you doing this?"

"To finish the game."

"What game?"

"The one Jim and Sherlock played. Involving us, of course."

You swallow. Suddenly you see in Seb's face a lot more than you've ever seen there before. He looks older, much older. "Who are you?" you ask, dumbfounded.

He gives you a look. "What the hell, John? I'm Seb. My name's really Sebastian Moran, if that's your question. And I never lied to you, by the way."

"That's not what I meant. Did you know Jim?"

"You could say that. Sorry, John, but we're running out of time. You've got to play the game."

"What game?"

He smiles. "The one Sherlock played, more than four years ago. Here."

He pushes one of the bottles on the table towards you, and aims the gun at you.

"Let's take our medicine together then, shall we?"

"No no no, wait! Why is this happening?"

"God, he did say you were a bit slow, but..."

"He? Jim?"

Slowly, it begins to dawn on you. _Symmetry, is it?_

"You... Were you...?"

"Spot on. I was Jim's 'John Watson'."

"Oh God. So when you said you were travelling abroad shooting people..."

"Yeah, I was."

"Are you saying..." You swallow, feeling a terrible sense of dread filling your chest. And hatred, too. "Are you saying Moriarty is still alive?"

"Moriarty? Yeah. One could say that."

"Say it!" you shout, slamming your fist on the table, making the two bottles jump. Then more quietly, your fist trembling with anger: "Say it. Is he alive?"

"Tut tut, I'm the one holding the gun here. Sit down. You get to choose, you know. Which pill to take. Did I just give you the good pill, or the bad pill? Is it a bluff, or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?" He dares to give you his Cheshire cat grin.

"Don't play with me, Seb."

"We've always been playing, John."

"I thought you said you _weren't _playing. You said you never lied to me."

He shakes his head. There is something like tenderness in his gaze.

"Why are you doing this?" you repeat, more softly. You're at a loss. The man before you is still Seb, still the same old Seb you thought you knew. Yet here he is, threatening to shoot you.

"I never lied to you, John," Sebastian says seriously, and you know he is telling the truth. "John. I killed Ron."

Your breath catches in your throat and you feel like you've been hit by a bucket of cold water.

"You..."

"I killed Ron," Seb says again, gravely.

"That's not–"

"He was a friend. But he saw something he shouldn't have."

Your hands tighten into fists. "You can't be serious. Seb, you can't be serious."

"But I am. It hurt. It actually hurt. But I killed him. And I will kill you now if you don't choose a pill and take it."

"Seb..."

"_Now,_ John."

You look around, beginning to panic. Time. You need to buy time.

"But... you were a friend of Chris's!"

"I approached her in order to get to you."

"But why?"

"It was part of the plan. Part of the problem."

"What problem?"

"The final problem."

"I don't get it!"

"You don't need to. Now. Choose. A. Pill. I'm sorry, John, but if you don't, I _will_ shoot you."

A pill? Is he serious? Your eyes lock. Yes. Definitely serious. You take a deep breath. Try not to panic, and fail. This is overly confusing. A pill. You remember Sherlock had taken the one the old cabbie had _not_ pushed towards him. But Seb... This is Seb...

You take the one he pushed towards you. He smiles.

"It's just a fifty-fifty chance," you say. You can hear the pain in your own voice. You can't ignore the sense of betrayal.

"You think so? Well, whatever you say... Look at the bright side of things, then: you can't think properly anyway, so a strategy game wouldn't have helped you much." He grins. Does he really intend to kill you? He isn't acting any different. You don't feel like this is a stranger. It really is Seb, his usual expressions, his manners, his ways of speaking... It's the same man you've known for more than a year now. The same man. But threatening you with a loaded gun, and not joking.

"Seb. Did Moriarty hire you to do this?" you ask. You don't know if he hears the pleading in your voice, but you certainly do.

"It depends which one you're talking about," he replies casually.

You frown.

"Which one? What do you mean?"

"Come on, let's stand up," he orders, still pointing the gun towards you.

You can feel the adrenaline overwhelm you. Fear. Resolve. But also, bewilderment. Turmoil. Sadness.

"You're not even giving me a chance, are you?" you murmur. He looks offended. Theatrics, again.

"What do you mean? One of the pills isn't poison, I swear!"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. I thought... I thought we were friends. I trusted you."

"We _are_ friends, John. I don't know what you trusted me with, but–"

"Why can't we just talk? Before I die or you die, can't you at least explain?"

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, John. I really am. I know what you mean. But there's no time. Now." He takes the bottle you left on the table, and the pill out. "Let's take our medicine together. On the count of three. One."

"Seb–"

He unlocks the gun and aims it at you. Your eyes lock, and you cannot miss his determination. So you start to mirror his movements. You know he'll shoot. You recognize resolve when you see it. His hand holding the gun does not quiver one bit.

"Two..."

Fear. Anger. Challenge. Together, you bring the pill you hold to your mouths. Eyes locked, still.

"...three."

A gunshot rips the air.

Seb falls back with a gasp. Your eyes widen and automatically, you turn to the window, just in time to see a black mop of hair and the back of a man running. Your legs feel weak and you have to rely on the table for support.

"This is impossible..."

On the floor, Seb groans. You look at him and all at once switch to doctor mode.

"Oh God, Seb."

You rush to his side and palpate his shoulder, looking for a wound. You find it. Briefly you switch back to soldier mode and look for the gun. It is a few steps away, too far for Sebastian to reach.

"Seb, can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you," he grumbles, a strain in his voice.

"I've got to call an ambulance."

He laughs.

"Don't bother."

You ignore him and rip your shirt. "Here. We've got to stop the bleeding."

"John. I said don't bother."

"Shut up! Don't you dare."

"John. I would have killed you."

"Shut up."

"If I wasn't wounded, I'd make you take that pill right now, and shoot you if you refused."

"Shut up, Seb!"

With one hand you try to stop the haemorrhage and with the other search for your phone in your jean's pocket.

"Don't bother, John. He'll be here soon."

"Who?" you say distractedly. Your head is all jumbled. You have no idea what's happening. You are vaguely aware that you are dialling the proper number to call an ambulance. In the distance, you hear your own voice describing the type of injury and giving directions.

_You could say that._

"Yes, it's a bullet wound."

_Symmetry, is it? _

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College."

_It was part of the plan. Part of the problem. The final problem. _

"We're in the building on the right when you arrive."

_It depends which one you're talking about. _

"First floor, the room with a broken window."

_There's no time._

"Yes. I'm a doctor. I'll be waiting."

_He'll be here soon. _

You hang up. Suddenly the double door to the room is slammed open. You turn towards it sharply.

You drop the phone.

"No... Impossible..."

Seb laughs strenuously.

"Or it's a miracle. What d'you think, John?"

You stand up, your eyes fixed on the man who just entered the room, a little breathless. You meet his eyes. The room disappears.

"Sherlock..."

* * *

><p><em>I'm walking in, walking in a fire<br>When I walk into you  
>Into you, you burn me up<br>You burn me up, you burn me up_

* * *

><p>When Sherlock enters the room and meets John's eyes, he instantly regrets he came.<p>

But he had no choice. This has to end. The story has to end. It has already been going on for all too long.

Quickly he averts his gaze, and looks at Seb. He is wounded, but not dying. Obviously, John is a better shot than him. The cabbie could not have survived, but this is not a deadly injury.

"Hello, Sherlock! For a second I thought you wouldn't make it in time..."

John seems lost. No, more than that, Sherlock realizes. In shock. He looks at Sebastian, then at Sherlock, with confusion.

"We don't have much time," Moran says. "John called an ambulance. Said there was a shot. Soon the cops will be here too."

"I see."

Slowly, Sherlock walks towards the two men, and stops to pick up the gun. John's gun. It's been almost three years since he last touched something that belonged to the doctor.

No. This isn't the time. There is no time to reminisce now.

"Sherlock... You're..." John begins, unable to continue.

Yes, definitely in shock, Sherlock notes, trying to concentrate on facts - and, if possible, not something as raw and painful as _John is in the room_. Can't even form proper sentences, he notices. Incoherent. He glances at John, then looks away. Too dangerous. Cannot risk it. He cannot stand the sight of John Watson.

"Come on, Sherlock, I told you there's no time," Seb whines. "Now gimme the gun. This wound bloody hurts, y'know."

"What?" John says. "No! Don't. Sherlock he tried to..."

John stops in mid-sentence, his eyes filling with horror as Sherlock throws the gun to Seb, who catches it adroitly despite his injury, with his other hand.

"Oh. I almost forgot. Here."

He takes an envelope out of his inner pocket and hands it to Sherlock, who comes closer and takes it.

"Sherlock, what are you–" John begins.

"Shh, Johnny boy," Sebastian cuts in, aiming the gun at him. John's eyes widen. Sherlock's turn to slits and he gives Moran a glare. "Be good. Sherlock and I have things to say to each other. So be quiet."

John pales and Sherlock glowers. But Seb bursts out laughing with juvenile mirth. "I'm good at imitating him, aren't I? Dear old Jim."

Sherlock can feel John glancing at him, trying to exchange a look, but he pointedly avoids looking back. His eyes remain fixed on Moran.

"You know," Sebastian goes on, addressing Sherlock, "he gave me only one envelope for this. Just one letter. Sometimes I had a few, as you may imagine. Depending on how things turned out, I was to give you one, or the other. It was quite a game for me too, loads of riddles. He always liked riddles."

Sherlock can feel the tension increase in the room and wishes Moran could be quicker about this. But things have to be done properly. This has to be the end. Still, it's torture that John has to be there, standing so close. He could almost touch him...

"Anyway. Only one letter this time. The final letter! You understand what it means, don't you, Sherlock? So shall we take bets? What d'you think _he_ predicted? That you would win and shoot me, or...?"

"Seb," Sherlock says quietly. There is a softness in his voice that will surprise John, and he knows it, but he refuses to think about it now. This isn't the time. So, methodically, he focuses his attention on Seb and lets the rest of the room, with John, disappear in the background.

Moran looks up at Sherlock and grins. He is sweating, clearly in pain.

"Thanks for giving me the gun, man. It was... It wasn't always pleasant, being with you all the time these past few years, but... I'm still glad it happened."

Sherlock just stares at him without answering.

"I'll give you one last thing – and that's from me, not from Jim," Moran goes on. "Actually, that's for you too, John. But you got the lesson already. I wonder sometimes if us 'pets' weren't smarter than the 'masters', what d'ya think?"

"Seb..." John says, and Sherlock can't help but feel a wave of jealousy hit him at the tone he uses.

"At a funeral recently," Seb continues, ignoring him, "they read an excerpt of _Romans_. Y'know, St Paul's epistles. So I read the whole text again afterwards. There's this sentence in it, made me laugh my head off. So appropriate, I thought. Almost heard Jim's voice say it to me. Oh, don't look at me like that, I know you _both_ hear voices."

Again, Sherlock can feel John's gaze on him. He focuses on Moran, refuses to turn his head, refuses to return his gaze.

"Here's the sentence: 'Owe no man any thing, but to love one another: for he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law.' _Owe _no man anything! And the law! Did you hear that? Ha ha ha!"

He chokes and John is about to rush by his side again, but Seb holds him at gunpoint and he steps back.

"Thank you, John. You're a real friend. I'm really glad I met you, y'know that? So please no hard feelings. Pals, yeah?"

Silence. Sherlock risks a glance at John, who is staring at Sebastian, so utterly lost and confused it hurts to watch him.

"Seb, please, just drop the gun."

Moran gives him a smile, and Sherlock is surprised to see it is genuine. Maybe all his smiles had been genuine. As if he could hear his thoughts, Sebastian turns to him a little and winks. Sherlock blinks, not sure he has seen correctly.

"Yeah, Sherlock, you have," Moran says quietly. "Hope you can see without me holding those stupid eggplants for you. You geniuses are so fucked up." He says it softly. Almost tenderly. "Well, John. I wish you good luck with that!"

John's eyes widen. He moves towards Seb but is too far, too slow. The sniper has already mouthed the gun and shot himself.

"No... no..."

Sherlock does not bat an eyelid, but John starts trembling.

Great. Now the doctor's state is even worse. If he had been in shock previously, now...

He turns to Sherlock, who instinctively steps back.

"Sherlock... What's going on? Just _what_ is going on?"

His voice breaks.

This is more than Sherlock can take. So he does the only thing he can think of. The only logical thing to do.

He turns around, and runs.

* * *

><p><em>And I love it <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	47. In limine

****A/N: **I must admit this chapter is a bit hard to follow - but to be fair, it's a Sherlock-centric chapter, so you should have got used to it by now, right? :D Plus, I did my best to update quickly this time. So... happy? :)  
><strong>

**_NB:_**_ the poem Seb writes in his note is by T.S. Elliot__ ("Gus the Theatre Cat")._

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

_**In limine: **_"_at the threshold"_

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XLVI: In limine<strong>

_Creep, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>When you were here before<br>I couldn't look you in the eye  
>You're just like an angel<br>Your skin makes me cry_

* * *

><p>The torn out page of a book attached to a name card with a paper clip.<p>

On the back of the name card, a note.

_**"It will all end as it begun..." **_

Dramatic and foreboding. Something he would say; something he would write. He always had a certain style.

On the front of the name card, a name, a profession, an address. Not his; he had no right. Then again, as a dead man, he had _all_ rights.

JIM MORIARTY  
><em>Consulting criminal<em>

221B, Baker Street, W1U 8EQ, London

www . thescienceofdeduction . co . uk

Sherlock watched the woman read the card with a slight regal frown, then put it down on the table next to her glass of wine and _Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship_ – was she trying to be funny?

Her eyes scanned the torn out page and once she was done reading, she let out a sigh.

"What is this?"

"The beginning of _Tristram Shandy_," Sherlock answered flatly, incurring a stare from the Woman.

Perhaps Shinwell was already at the meeting place. Sherlock did not have any time to waste here, having a chat over wine. But the presence of the Woman in London was not supposed to be part of the picture, and Sherlock did not want it to jeopardize his plans.

"That's wonderful, but it doesn't exactly answer my question, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock glared.

"Don't grimace like that," she said with a smirk. "You're not _that_ famous. Nobody will jump the moment they hear that name, except perhaps–"

"I still don't understand what you are doing here," he replied dryly.

His phone vibrated.

**Today Buckingham palace. And BB doesn't know ur in London. SJ**

_Ur?_ Seriously? Sherlock repressed a groan.

"Why, I told you to meet me in this restaurant. Wouldn't it be rude for me not to show up?"

So Mycroft wasn't aware of his presence in London. That at least was good news.

"I meant in London."

"Snappy, aren't we? Now I understand why that tiger hunter left you – you're even worse than tigers."

But the real problem wasn't Mycroft anyway, it was Sebastian. How had he succeeded in making John bring him everywhere he had been to with the consulting detective was something beyond Sherlock's comprehension. Why would anyone want to retrace anything that concerned him? Why would John _agree_?

"Funny you're the one hunting now," she went on. "The question is: who are you hunting, Mr. Holmes?"

The fact was that John had agreed. Now, the real question was...

"I reckon this is none of your business."

…what kind of beginning was Sherlock looking for exactly?

"Really? Are you sure?"

It will all end as it began. It. What was "it"?

"Quite sure."

This was in Moriarty's handwriting.

"I could be useful."

So the first time they met?

"I don't think so. In fact you can only be a hindrance. Can't you go back to your husband?"

The Pool.

"But he's in London."

But when? Carl Powers, or Semtex?

"You can do whatever you want with him. Persuade him to go somewhere else. Go with him. London is not safe for you."

Maybe not the Pool. _Careful, he's a bomber, remember?_ A bomb. An explosion.

"Then why don't you come lodging across from my hotel? To keep an eye on me. Isn't that what you do?"

But where? A bomb in the Pool? When?

To Shinwell:

**I must know in advance when they plan to visit the pool where CP died. **

"It must be tough, for you. Don't you feel like an abandoned puppy, all alone in that empty house just across John's–"

"If you called me here just to tell me this, then I have better things to do," Sherlock cut in, standing up and ready to leave. He had a few things to get at the hotel before going to Baker Street.

"Sit down, Mr. Holmes," the Woman said curtly. "I came because I was worried."

"About me?" he snorted, disbelieving. What was she on about? He didn't have time for this.

"Not only about you."

"You should worry about yourself," he advised sternly.

"Oh I have Yi Lin for that."

Sherlock smirked as he sat back. "I'm sure."

"I never believed you were dead, you know," Irene said quietly. "I might have been the only one not in the know but who _knew_."

What should he wear next?

"Yes, maybe."

There was the old man's disguise. But that one was too good just to walk down the street. And he was hunchbacked. Not inconspicuous enough.

"But I was wrong about something. I thought that for sure, once you were done playing the bad guy, the great criminal mastermind, or the sacrificed hero, you'd go home whining and showing off, more childish than ever. Sexier, too."

Sherlock gave her a look. Irene tapped on her book.

"But that's not the case. You did something I never expected; you broke yourself down to pieces. You were already broken. What was the need?" She played with her glass a little, making a clear, clinking noise with her nails. "You killed yourself, Mr. Holmes. So I had to send the Iceman to revive you. You understand, don't you?"

Sherlock glowered, then looked back at his phone, which had vibrated again.

**Will do. Won't you tell Molly you're back? **

Sherlock glared again, at his phone this time.

**NO. Neither will you. **

Meanwhile, the Woman kept on talking.

"You're changed, Mr. Holmes."

What should he do with his hair? If John met him on the street he was capable of recognizing him just from his hair. Sherlock had been told by the Irregulars on several occasions that during the past three years, it had repeatedly happened. John had run after some stranger thinking it was him. As if he had a radar.

Maybe the wig would suffice. Nondescript, without anything even close to a proper haircut. He'd have to change clothes, though. These did not hide his height enough. Sherlock glanced at the Woman.

"What do you think of it?" he asked.

"The letter?"

A small smile came to float on his lips. "No. The clothes."

"Oh."

Their gazes locked. The Woman took her time before answering:

"Well...I'm sure your brother had the same thought."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"So _you_ are the one who sent him to me?" he growled.

"You haven't been listening at all, have you? Such a bad boy."

Sherlock's phone vibrated. He looked down at the screen.

**Fine, fine! Won't say a word about it. **

"As for the clothes, the question is obvious, isn't it?" Irene Adler went on. Sherlock looked up at her and searched her face.

"Why are _you_ here, Mr. Holmes? Are you an angel in disguise among the devils, or is it the other way around?"

Sherlock simply smiled.

"I'll be going, then," he said.

He left some bank notes on the table, enough to pay for the both of them, and left. Outside it was warmer than he had expected, and he was hit by the smell of London. The smell of the street. It had been so long.

When he finally got to Baker Street with two suitcases, it was hot. The many layers of clothes he was wearing, not to mention the things he's put _under_ the clothes to appear to be obese, certainly did not help. He glowered at the staircase. Now there were the steps. No wonder Mycroft relentlessly tried to lose weight.

The flat Sherlock had decided to rent was the one Ludmila Dyachenko had lived in almost three years before. It was small and not very furnished, but that did not matter. Its asset was its location. It was exactly across the street from 221B.

Sherlock put down the two suitcases and locked the door behind him. He took off his jacket, then the one under that, and the jumper, and the shirt, and the padding. He looked down at his body and thought it was thin. Had he lost weight since he'd last been in London, or was it just because in comparison with what he'd appeared to weigh just a minute ago with the padding, he now looked lean?

Well. Whatever.

Exhausted, he fell in the only chair in the room, an armchair, and noted that it wasn't as comfortable as the one in 221B. Not that he would ever sit in it again.

There was a metallic taste on his tongue, and he did not know why. Was he worried about something? Scared? But fear didn't taste metallic. Fear tasted bitter and electric.

Sherlock closed his eyes and curled up in the chair. He would need some sleep before the night. Too much to do at night. No time to sleep.

He tried to slacken his muscles, to release some of the tension his body was holding; to no avail. Three years had done too much damage in that respect, and in any case, he had never been a great sleeper.

Still sleep would come, eventually. It always did. Exhaustion was a strange thing. Sleeping was a strange thing.

_It will all end as it began. _

How had it begun?

How had _what_ begun?

He drifted off to sleep before he'd found the answer.

* * *

><p><em>You float like a feather<br>In a beautiful world  
>I wish I was special<br>You're so very special _

* * *

><p>How did it begin? <em>How<em>? The pool? The cabbie? So... poison?

The more he thought about it, the more Sherlock found various possible answers to the question.

Jim was devious, he liked harmony. _Symmetry_.

_**It will all end as it began...**_

Yes, that sounded like him. That sounded like something he would do. Something symmetrical, something dramatic.

But there was something else. Another factor.

What would _Sebastian_ do?

Seb was devoted to Jim, that much was certain.

Or was it? How devoted was he to Jim, considering he'd let him die?

Sherlock shook his head. No. He let him die precisely because he was devoted to him. Because he had respected and understood him. Fine.

Still, it did not mean Seb would do everything the Moriarty way. He had his own personality after all – and what a personality! In three years Sherlock had had quite enough, thank you. So he knew. Things were bound to get fiery.

Sherlock rolled on the side and sighed in annoyance. This strangely felt like the days he had spent in Molly's flat at the beginning of all this trial. He was lying motionless on the sofa bed in the flat across 221B Baker Street, staring at the ceiling and thinking. But he wasn't bored. He couldn't figure out what Moran had in mind, and it was driving him crazy.

Jim Moriarty. His nemesis. An archenemy worthy of the title. The _villain_ of the story. Sherlock could figure him out. He understood him. He had become him.

But Jim's henchman? He should have known by now. He should have been able to understand the sniper. But he did not. He simply did not.

Moran was dangerous because he was unseizable. Too ambiguous to be entirely predictable. He did not hate people, he actually _liked_ them; he enjoyed going out, mingling with the crowd. Talking at the bar with strangers. Hanging out in pubs. He genuinely liked it. Yet he genuinely liked shooting people as well.

"The power of life and death... Don't you see, Sherlock?"

"No," Sherlock had answered bluntly. "No, I don't. Dull."

"Ha ha! How d'you know it's dull if you don't even get it? John gets it. _He_'s not a baby, you see. You're still a baby, Sherlock. Lovely one, though a bit exasperating at times – no offence."

"No offence taken. But please do shut up."

"See?"

No. Sherlock definitely did not see. He had not seen then, and still did not now.

Seb was in fact humane. He understood people, liked them and was liked by them. He was fascinated with geniuses, but he did not look down on ordinary people. "I'm from the plebs, y'know," he'd said once, when they were sleeping in the same bed again and neither of them was sleeping. "I like John for that, too. Simple man. Doctor and all, captain even, but still. A simple man."

He'd said it like a compliment, with a voice tinged with esteem.

"You studied in Eton," Sherlock had pointed out, ignoring the part about John. Seb had burst out laughing.

"Did you see that in my record? Never heard something so grotesque. Jim probably put it there. Eton, seriously?"

Unseizable.

Sherlock let out another annoyed sigh.

What would Jim do? Jim would go for something very dramatic.

He'd love an explosion, fireworks. He wasn't one for blood.

Poison was elegant but too random.

No, it would probably be the Pool, the Pool where everything had begun, years ago, even before Sherlock was aware of Jim's existence, when Jim discovered the existence of Sherlock – the clever kid who had found him out. The one brat who had thought about the shoes.

The Pool was also the location of their first meeting. The lab wasn't exactly where they first met – Jim from IT wasn't Jim Moriarty, it was a disguise, a stupid one. Sherlock couldn't believe he had fallen for it.

No, he hadn't _fallen_ for anything. Jim from IT had been too boring to even notice. Too insignificant to remember. That had been Moriarty's genius, he supposed.

So the Pool was perfect. The place where everything began. The place where Sherlock gave Jim their first secret rendezvous.

Sherlock was rather proud of the symmetry himself: he had been the one to choose the time and place of their first meeting, and the one to choose the time and place of their last meeting. One could say Jim had always initiated it, had been the one to bring Sherlock to do it. But still. Jim watched, and Sherlock danced. Sherlock wasn't sure which one led, in the end.

So Sherlock knew what Jim would have wanted for the grand finale.

But Moran? That was something else entirely. Another story.

Sherlock should have asked. He should have talked to the man more often, answered him more often, perhaps. They had become so close in the past three years. It was strange. It felt as if he had known Seb all his life, but he hadn't, he clearly hadn't. Sebastian knew everything about him. Sherlock too, of course, as far as the facts were concerned. Chronologically, he knew everything about Seb's life.

But his true relationship to Jim? His goal in life?

Sherlock rolled on the bed to face the window. The ceiling was becoming boring.

In fact, Sherlock knew. He knew the answers to all these questions. Seb's relationship to Jim had been as indefinable as Sherlock's had been to John, but still both could be summed up in three words: a deep attachment. Everything else was superfluous. But it was always in the superfluous that meaning could be found. John's blog was superfluous. John's smirks and chuckles were superfluous. John's _presence_ was superfluous – Sherlock had lived before he had met John, and obviously could live without him. The past three years were proof enough.

Sherlock did not know the superfluous about Jim's and Sebastian's relationship. He knew they were both much more... extreme, one could say, than him and John.

_Who goes around kissing people in their sleep?  
>Jim did.<em>

_Shh... It's going to be all right. You're here. I'm here. You're alive, and he is alive. And you're not dead to me, Sherlock. _

_Sherlock, dear, I've been waiting for you all my life!  
>You've never waited for something, Seb. Not for anything. Not for anyone.<em>

_Had he been in your place and me in John Watson's, he would have let me die, and laughed in your face._

_D'you know what lies under the Lotus tree, Sherlock? Job said it. 40:21-22. _

_The Behemoth, Sherlock. _

The Behemoth. Perhaps he should read the New Testament again. Or at least the Revelation. Sherlock picked up his phone.

**Next time you decide to come and bother me, bring the Bible**. **SH**

How did it begin? How did it all begin?

Stupid idea, symmetry. Why did it have to end as it began? Couldn't they do something new for once? Something new...

His phone vibrated.

**What tedious reading. What makes you think I have such a book in my possession, Mr. Holmes? **

Sherlock groaned. Stupid Woman. Could nobody be useful nowadays? He looked back to the window. Across the street, the light was turned on in the flat of the Watsons. Well, in one of the flats of the Watsons. How much money did they make to be able to afford _two_ flats when they still spent most of their time together?

_Are you upset that he's no longer upset?_

_Do you always have to speak out of the blue and out of context in the middle of the night?_

_But you weren't sleeping!_

_That's not the point._

_Then what's the point?_

Yes, indeed. What's the point?

The final problem.

The final _question_.

What's the point?

_What's the point of it all? What's the meaning of it all? You could've jumped for real that day. But you didn't. Why?_

_Because I am not psychotic and suicidal, unlike a certain someone?_

_Bang. Wrong answer. Say, Sherlock, what do you intend to do once you're done? With the IOU people and Mycroft, I mean. I know it won't take long now. So then, what? What distraction are you going to search for next?_

_It is none of your business._

_Oh but it is, and you know it._

_Why?_

_Because your answer is my cue, love!_

_I'll get on with my life, like everyone._

Well. Obviously, that hadn't been the correct answer. Not the one Moran wanted to hear, at any rate.

The question was...

...did that idiot even want an answer in the first place?

* * *

><p><em>But I'm a creep<br>I'm a weirdo  
>What the hell am I doing here?<br>I don't belong here _

* * *

><p>"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, not even looking at the Woman. He thought she had just spoken but he hadn't been listening. Why did she have to intrude now of all times? "I swear your husband doesn't know how to keep an eye on you."<p>

The Woman shrugged and looked around the place with a pout of distaste. What, did she think he had the time to care about decoration? _I did not arrange the flat_, he felt like telling her. But it was pointless. And there was no time for pointless.

"He doesn't even try. He's busy," she answered. Sherlock, having forgotten their conversation, and the very fact that there had been a conversation, wondered what she was talking about.

The Woman wasn't really stupid, just a little bit, just enough to be rather on the _ordinary_ side. Not quite ordinary, though. Still, it had been stupid of her to come to London. Idiotic woman. Always liked meddling. Just couldn't stop herself, could she?

"So what if your henchman noticed me? It's not as if he didn't already know you were staying just across the street from his target."

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, trying to concentrate on perfecting his disguise. Would the cane be too much?

"Dr. Watson is a target. You know that."

_Why did you lie to me, Mycroft?  
>Because it's important. It matters. Sherlock, you must come back to London.<em>

Sherlock ignored the annoying voice replaying in his mind.

If he had to walk all crooked, the cane would help.

"You could be one too," he replied to the Woman, some distant part of his brain trying to keep track of what was being said.

Yes, the cane would help. Not to mention the hunch was rather heavy. It looked real, though. Good enough to fool anyone. Good enough to fool John.

"No I couldn't. And you know that too."

And what about the beard? Would the beard be too much? No, the beard was good. Sherlock checked that it was sticking to his skin properly and wouldn't fall.

"Then if I know everything maybe you could just be on your way," he said to his uninvited guest.

"Do you have to be so rude?" she dared to protest. Wasn't she the one being rude, barging in like this? "It's not very convincing when you're looking so... old."

That is rather the point, he retorted mentally. "Be quiet."

"God, you're twisted."

"Well, always a self-portrait, remember?" he replied, waving his walking stick in front of her.

He looked himself in the mirror. His disguise was perfect. He looked nothing like himself. John would never recognize him like this. Not in a million years.

_Do you know what life is about, Sherlock? _

"I don't understand," the Woman's voice was saying, "why don't you just kill him now that you know what he's up to?"

_Life is about dying._

"I do not know what he's up to."

_Life isn't a game. _

"You know it can't be good."

_That's just a myth for stupid people – ordinary people. But you know better. _

"I know it's a game. One I have to play in order to finish this."

_You've seen it, haven't you? _

"You're unbelievable. Until the very end, all that matters to you is that ga–"

"No."

_The void. _

"It isn't," Sherlock went on. The voice was getting louder. Couldn't they all just stop talking, let him think? Voices, voices, voices... "But I know I have to play it, because that's how Moriarty planned it."

_A game has rules; there may be partners, opponents; stakes; a goal to achieve in order to win. _

"I have to play the game, and win," he finished decidedly.

_But that isn't life. _

The Woman glanced out the window, barely brushing the curtain. Sherlock's eyes followed her gaze. Mrs. Watson was standing at the window in John's flat, cradling their son. Blake. Fair-haired. Perhaps the name would make sense for him.

"What tells you he didn't set it so you couldn't win?" the Woman's voice asked.

_Many people enjoy living their lives like games. Society helps you a lot with it. It isn't so bad, I suppose. But us... _

Sherlock smiled. "He wouldn't. If he did, it would no longer be a game now, would it?"

_You, Moriarty... We'd get bored. _He _got bored. So bored. _

She arched her eyebrow and gave him one of her tantalizing looks. She sure was talented at that.

"Still. What makes you think you can win?"

_Look at you. How much you are hurting because of _people... _It's beyond me. _

"Please. I thought you knew me by now, Ms. Adler," Sherlock answered playfully.

_I wouldn't have jumped, Sherlock. I would've tried to stop Moriarty, have him arrested even, perhaps killed, whatever the risk. I would have wanted to win whatever the cost. _

Irene's eyes gleamed. A smirk formed on her lips.

"I thought I did too, Mr. Holmes."

_All men die, Sherlock. _

"Well, if you don't mind, I'll be off, then," he told her.

Caring _isn't_ an advantage. But it's too late.

She arched an eyebrow. "Are you leaving me alone in your flat, Mr. Holmes?" she asked with a rather aristocratic air. Sherlock grinned.

_You already care. _

"No, Ms. Adler. I am throwing you out."

The Woman pursed her lips and led the way to the door with dignity.

_Don't be even more stupid and make yourself suffer for the time you have left. _

"Your disguise to visit _me_ was much sexier," she dropped before leaving him on the pavement. Sherlock could not repress a smile.

_John is alive, Sherlock. You are alive. I'll let you draw the conclusion yourself. _

The conclusion was easy enough. But Mycroft had forgotten something. _Sebastian is alive, too._ The symmetry. So many ways to finish this off. Well. At least three.

_John is alive, Sherlock. You are alive. Sebastian Moran is alive too. I'll let you draw the conclusion yourself. _

Sherlock concluded.

_One of us must die. _

* * *

><p><em>I don't care if it hurts<br>I want to have control  
>I want a perfect body<br>I want a perfect soul_

* * *

><p>"...and I'm carrying quite a lot of things, I'll be home any minute so can I–"<p>

The collision sends a current of electricity throughout Sherlock's body. No. There is no fear. No turmoil. Just irritation because a stranger talking on the phone has just run into him.

"Sorry I–" the stranger begins.

Sherlock gives his best glare. He has fallen on the ground thanks to that idiotic young man and the books he was carrying are scattered all over the place. No respect these days. Just because he was speaking to his stupid wife on the phone did not mean that stupid man should pay no attention to his surroundings whatsoever. He looks sorry, though. Ashamed. Good. He can.

Another electric shiver as the man helps Sherlock to his feet. No. Just anger. Just outrage. The stranger is picking up the books.

"I'm terribly sorry sir, I wasn't–"

"Can't you watch where you're going, young man?!" Sherlock interrupts in a voice that isn't his because he doesn't want to hear the other's voice. He didn't think it would be so hard. Just hearing him. How can a mere voice cause pain?

No. Anger. Fury.

"_John, is everything all right?_"

Oh, so he hasn't hung up yet?

A stranger's voice. That is definitely a stranger's voice. Not someone Sherlock ever wants to know.

Angry. He should simply be angry. _A simple man._

"Are you bloody blind or did you not care that you'd make an old man stumble on the pavement?!" he shouts.

"Look sir, I'm sorry. Here, your books."

"You broke my cane!" Sherlock screams again, trying to make John – no, the stranger – shut up.

Irritation.

"I'm terribly sorry sir. Mary I'll call you back."

Anger.

"_John-_"

Fury.

"My name isn't Mary!"

Outrage.

"I never said that."

Just stop saying anything at all.

"Are you deaf too? Can't you hear that this is a man's voice? Don't I look like a man to you?"

_I know you're for real._

"I never–"

_Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time. _

"Just get out of the way, you're preventing people from getting in and out, standing there like an idiot. The young these days, bloody blind, can't look where they're going, stupid people with their stupid phones..."

He walks off, still ranting, until he's sure John can no longer hear him. Until he's sure nobody is watching him.

_I like to watch you dance. _

Sherlock was tired of dancing.

* * *

><p><em>I want you to notice when I'm not around<br>You're so very special  
>I wish I was special <em>

* * *

><p>Between the scene at the supermarket and the one he has prepared for the flat, Sherlock took time to compose himself. The shock had been expected. He had not heard John's voice for years. Hadn't seen him from up close for a very long time.<p>

Perhaps three years wasn't such a long time. But it felt like centuries. Like another life, one that had been his, but not quite his – something that no longer belonged to him, but to a dead man. At the beginning, he had wondered why the Woman kept calling him Mr. Holmes, always, as if to taunt him. Perhaps it wasn't taunting after all. Perhaps it was just to remind him of his name.

His own name. Sherlock snorted. How silly. As if he could forget.

_But you did..._

He was at Speedy's, near the window, watching out for Mrs. Watson going out with the baby. Because she would. He knew she would. Good weather, and she'd told Mrs. Hudson earlier. This morning. Sherlock had not bugged their flats, but he could still read on people's lips.

… _you did delete things. You did forget. _

Her lips kept kissing things. The little pink thing in the crib, John's temple, her awful tea mug – even though that wasn't _exactly_ kissing, John's cheek, Mrs Hudson when she brought cakes, John's other temple, the pink thing's feet, John's other cheek...

_Pressed the button._

Here she was, coming out of the door with a pushchair. And the little pink thing inside.

_Blasted the mind palace._

Sherlock paid the bill for his coffee and went to ring at the door. He heard his landlady's – no, Mrs. Hudson's – hurried steps down the hall, and tried to look as grumpy as he could without actually looking like himself. Not that she would recognize him. Nobody could, under this disguise. Not even John. Especially not John.

"Yes. How can I help you?"

"I am sorry, does a certain Dr. Watson live here?"

"Yes, indeed. But he does not practice here."

"Oh no, I am not in need of a doctor. I just need to speak with him. Please. Could you let him know I am here?"

"Well, I'll go and check if he's here first," she said prudently, her smile perfunctory. Sherlock stopped himself from rolling his eyes. The good woman hadn't got any better at lying, obviously. Well. Perhaps it was good enough to fool ordinary people.

Sherlock heard her steps up the stairs then down again.

"You can go up, it's on the first floor!" she said with her usual cheerfulness. Sherlock thanked her and took the steps, one by one. She was walking just behind him, slowed down by him. He could feel her sympathizing gaze on his hunch. He certainly looked crooked. Twisted. Quite literally. _Always a self-portrait._

_There are so many things wrong with you, the list is endless._

"Here we are!" she said when they got in front of the door.

_It's the pot calling the kettle black._

Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine – his _real_ spine. It had been so long since he had last seen this door.

_Well we're both black, then, Sherlock. There's no light in us. None._

He nodded thank you to the landlady, who went back downstairs.

Sherlock turned to the open door. Stepped towards it.

"Hello, sir," he said in not-his-voice.

"Hi again," John answered rather curtly. Then he seemed to feel bad about his tone and attitude and stood up to greet him. He was trying to be polite. Obviously. Sherlock felt a pang in his chest and slapped himself mentally for it. "What can I do for you?" John went on.

For Sherlock? Nothing. But for himself?

"I just wanted to apologize for my behaviour earlier." John had to know about this for his own safety. "When you ran into me you dropped your wallet" He would never believe a random stranger if he were told that Sebastian Moran was a sniper who planned (maybe) on killing him (in some – unknown – ways) "– it was in my books when you gave them back to me," so Sherlock had, he just had to do this, "I suppose you didn't notice," to reveal himself to John.

"My wallet?" John said suspiciously.

This was precisely what Sherlock had _not_ wanted. But it was the only way to warn John properly. Reveal to him the truth – tell him he wasn't dead, but that either of them could well end up dead very soon if they weren't careful, because Seb was looming.

"Here," Sherlock said, handing John his wallet, trying not to look at the room, not to see anything, not to observe, not to realize how much it had changed, how much it had remained the same... "I realize I might have been a little rude." Trying not to look at John's face, not to see him, but he still had to look at him, he was apologizing after all, or... Yes, the sheepish look downwards was good too. Like that he didn't have to see anything but the floor. "I hate people talking on the phone" on the floor there was a red pen that must have fallen from the table a red pen like those teachers have to correct papers definitely not John's couldn't be John's but then again he was no longer living alone he had a wife "in public areas and who don't pay any attention to their surroundings, you see, but–"

"Hi!"

Sherlock froze when he heard the voice. Looked up. Stared at the man who had just walked in, coming from the corridor as if he owned the place and dropping on _his_ sofa with a thump. No. Not his sofa. No longer his sofa. Never again. But. Still. Definitely not Seb's. No, not _his_ sofa either.

Seb glanced at him and nodded hello. The moment John turned back to face Sherlock, he grinned, and winked. Sherlock could have murdered him in this instant. Had he been armed, he would have stood, dropped the pretence, and shot him dead there and then. But he was not armed. And Seb probably was. Sherlock's gaze scanned him. Yes. He was.

"Look, it's fine," John's voice cut in, almost making Sherlock jump. Seb's grin widened. _Can't stand the sound of his voice, can you?_ his infuriating smirk was saying. That was the problem when you spent too much time with people. They got under your skin. Could read you. Well. Not all people. But Seb was Jim's John Watson. So naturally, _he_ could. "I'm sorry I ran into you," John went on, and Sherlock caught himself thinking _me too, I'm quite sorry, it should never have happened_, "Would you like compensation for your cane, perhaps?" _Mind play + power play + leg work = bliss. Friends had never been part of the equation. _

"No, no!" Sherlock exclaimed in not-his-voice – he hated that voice, an old man's voice, a crooked old man's voice, a cripple's. "That's not why I came." Not that it mattered now. "Just wanted to give you back your wallet." He should have slipped a note in it. No. Useless. John would have needed the shock of seeing him, Sherlock, in order to believe Seb was bad news. "I'll go now." There was nothing else to do.

Behind John Seb kept smirking. _I told you. You've gotta play the game. You're trying to cheat here! Bad boy. But I won't let you. You can't involve John, sorry, my dear. You'll have to do this alone. _

Alone.

"I'm sorry I was a bit rude myself," John was saying, sounding guilty. "Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea?" Too many words at once. _Cup of tea_. He often said that, before. The intonation. _Cup of tea, Sherlock? _He had missed it.

No. No, certainly not.

_Dinner? Starving. _Shut up, just shut up. "No, thank you, really, I'll be on my way." He had to get out of here. Away from John's voice and Seb's smirk and the smell of this flat – the old smell mingled with a new one, a foreign one.

"Let me walk you back to the door, then."

"No, no!" He could do nothing in the staircase. Seb would be watching. Who knew what he could do if Sherlock got rid of the disguise now? "I can find my way." You should have got yourself a cat, like Molly. Less trouble. Why did you have to go and get yourself a flatmate?

"Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea? The water's already boiled, so..."

Who would be foolish enough to get hooked on a single original?

"No, really, it's very kind of you, but I should be going."

No duplicate whatsoever.

"Let me walk you to the door then, the stairs are a bit steep."

Something as fragile and breakable as a human life.

"I'm hunchbacked, young man, not peg-legged."

A double-edged sword.

John smiled kindly. _Not just data._ Sherlock's gaze got caught. _Unpredictable._ The doctor looked very tired. _Something you cannot use or dispose of as you please. _

"Yes, of course not. Still–"

If you lose it, you cannot obtain it again.

"No no no, I'll be fine." Nowhere in the world. "Thank you for your time and my apologies again."

Because it was only one of a kind.

"Well, then..."

If cocaine was risky behaviour...

"Goodbye, sir."

… then what tied you to John Watson...

"Goodbye."

...was plain suicide.

_Goodbye, John. _

_No, don't... SHERLOCK!_

Outside it was pouring. Funny, Sherlock hadn't even noticed the rain. Hadn't heard it when he was inside. Had been too focused on not noticing anything. Anything but what was related to Sebastian Moran. The rest of the room had been superfluous. John's tiredness and his reactions to the old man had been superfluous.

Sherlock remembered. Three years ago, before he'd left, he had been trying to do something.

Before he'd left, he'd been trying to keep John Watson by his side, at all costs.

* * *

><p><em>But I'm a creep<br>I'm a weirdo  
>What the hell am I doing here?<br>I don't belong here _

* * *

><p><em><strong>Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door,<strong>_ the note in Moran's handwriting began. _**His name, as I ought to have told you before, is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss to pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.**_

At this point, Sherlock had considered burning the note right away and not bothering to read it at all. But then he conceded he might want to give some thought about it once he had calmed down. So he scanned the note briefly and then put it away in the drawer of the bedside table and started to undress. Layer by layer. First, the beard.

_I'm tired of being locked up in a different hotel room every day, too! This isn't a life! _

Well, apparently Seb spent a great deal of his time cooped up in John's flat. How was that any better? A life. Sherlock snorted. He was fuming.

_**His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake, and he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake**_, went the rest of the note. _Shut up_, Sherlock told his brain. _It's not as if there's any point in it. No riddle. Just Seb cocking a snook. __**Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats- but no longer a terror to mice and to rats. For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime; though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.**_

So Moran wanted to play the game that way. Fine. If he believed _he_ could win against Sherlock Holmes, then that was the right way to grate on his nerves. To put him on fire.

_**And whenever he joins his friends at their club (which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub), he loves to regale them, if someone else pays, with anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.**_

The problem in the end was Moran's involvement. Had this been another face-to-face with Jim, Sherlock would have known exactly how to proceed.

_**For he once was a Star of the highest degree- he has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree. And he likes to relate his success on the Halls, where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.**_

It did not make sense. This did not square with the symmetry. Why would Moran be after John, after all? Sherlock had jumped. Admittedly, he hadn't died. But if anyone should get killed now, it was him, not John, or anybody else. Why? The answer must have lied somewhere in Jim's and Sebastian's relationship.

_**But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell, was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.**_

_I never asked Jim a lot about... well, anything, really. I didn't care about what he'd done before we met._

It will end as it began. They had already gone to the Pool. Nothing had happened. Sherlock had been there, during the day, and also during the night when they went back. Nothing. Nothing at all.

_**"I have played," so he says, "every possible part, and I used to know seventy speeches by heart."**_

_Or the number of people he'd killed, I suppose._

Nothing had happened, nobody had died, and it did not make sense.

If it wasn't the Pool, then what?

"_**I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag, and I knew how to let the cat out of the bag."**_

_Jim never killed anyone. Well, except Carl Powers, but you already know that, don't you?_

Yes, Carl Powers. Carl Powers minus the pool. That leaves only poison. Or the lab. But John never went to Bart's anymore. Had no reason to go there. There was still Mike. And Molly. Seb could find a way. Sherlock had already given Shinwell and the Irregulars his instructions – if John went to Bart's, he would know.

"_**I knew how to act with my back and my tail; with an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail."**_

Still, it was aggravating, not knowing exactly what Sebastian had in store for them. Nothing, perhaps. Maybe he was just messing with their heads.

"_**I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts, whether I took the lead, or in character parts."**_

No, Sherlock thought. The note had been in Moriarty's handwriting. Sebastian had been waiting for his cue.

"**I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell; when the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell."**

So there was a last act. There was a last scene the consulting criminal had planned – or a set, at least. Even he could not know what would happen exactly.

_We made a bet. A bet on you. _

Sherlock looked at the pile of clothes and artefacts on the floor – all that remained of his disguise.

_**"In the Pantomime season I never fell flat, and I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat."**_

He was tired of playing. This wasn't what he'd call a proper game. _You're not playing the numbers, you're playing ME. _

Right. Stupid Seb. The lotus. The Behemoth. _All oblivion will bring the apocalypse. Don't forget, Sherlock; you don't want to wait for some kind of revelation, do you?_

"_**But my grandest creation, as history will tell, was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."**_

"Shut up!" he said out loud, having enough of the voices. "I need to think!" He fell on the bed, wrapped himself in the sheet, and curled up in a corner, trying to concentrate. He closed his eyes.

_**Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin, he will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.**_

_All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. _

_**At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat, when some actor suggested the need for a cat.**_

But Jim hadn't beaten him that day. In the end, he hadn't beaten him. And now he could no longer watch him dance. Could no longer watch anything, really.

_**He once played a Tiger-could do it again- which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain.**_

_Now I understand why that tiger hunter left you – you're even worse than tigers. __Funny you're the one hunting now. The question is: who are you hunting, Mr. Holmes?_

Who? That was a stupid question. Or was it?

_**And he thinks that he still can, much better than most, produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.**_

_"Sorry I–"_

_"I'm terribly sorry sir, I wasn't–"_

_"Look sir, I'm sorry. Here, your books." _

Maybe the archipelago hadn't been such a good idea after all. Sherlock couldn't remember his mind being such a mess when it was a palace.

_**And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire, to rescue a child when a house was on fire.**_

_"I'm terribly sorry sir. Mary I'll call you back." _

_**And he says: "Now then kittens, they do not get trained as we did in the days when Victoria reigned."**_

_"I never said that." _

Then again, pirates never lived in palaces

_"I never–" _

"_**They never get drilled in a regular troupe, and they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop."**_

And what was he but a pirate now? He only stole things.

_"Hi again. What can I do for you?"_

_"My wallet?"_

Data. Information.

_"Look, it's fine. I'm sorry I ran into you. Would you like compensation for your cane, perhaps?" _

_**And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws, "Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was."**_

Identities.

_"I'm sorry I was a bit rude myself. Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea?" _

_"Let me walk you back to the door, then." _

Lives.

"_Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea? The water's already boiled, so..."_

"_**These modern productions are all very well, but there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell, that moment of mystery when I made history..."**_

But he refused to steal anything from John. The image of a woman at the window, cradling a baby, flashed across his field of vision.

"_Let me walk you to the door then, the stairs are a bit steep."_

"_Yes, of course not. Still–"_

"_Well, then..."_

He should have done it when he still could.

"_**...As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."**_

He should have stolen something from him when he still could.

"_Goodbye." _

When he woke up, Sherlock could not remember what it was he should have stolen from John. Not that it was relevant.

It was only superfluous.

* * *

><p><em>She's running out the door, she's running out<br>She runs runs runs  
>Whatever makes you happy, whatever you want<br>You're so very special_

* * *

><p><strong>They're retracing the Study in Pink case today. SJ<strong>

This was the last case then. The end was approaching. Sherlock's hand quivered with frustration. It will all end as it began. How did it begin? How did _what_ begin?

Life.

Death.

"I thought you said you had something important to tell me," Sherlock told the Woman, who was sitting just across from him.

_**"Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem." **_

"I told my husband you're my cousin and you're gay, so I can see you as much as I want."

"I never asked about that. Your husband is a fool for believing you without even hiring a private detective."

The Woman smirked.

_"**Stayin' alive!"**_

"Oh, I had convincing material."

"Lucky he doesn't follow the news, too," Sherlock kept on grumbling. That is, the news from three years ago in England.

"_**It's so boring, isn't it?"**_

"I asked Mr. Moran to tamper with a picture of you and Jim together."

Sherlock stared. "Beg your pardon?"

"Granted."

"You must be joking."

"Yes. It was a picture of you and John. Mr. Moran doesn't have any picture of Jim – sad, isn't it? I don't know how I'd survive without any pictures of _you_."

Sherlock kept staring at her blankly. "On which side _are_ you?" he asked.

_"**It's just... staying."** _

"Yours, of course. Always. Doesn't mean I can't spend some time with your sniper – you spent quite a lot of time with him these past few years."

_**"All my life I've been searching for distractions." **_

Sherlock groaned. "Why did you call me here? I don't have time to waste."

"That's rude."

"No, it's the truth. Now. You said it was important."

The Woman locked eyes with him.

"I'm going back tomorrow."

"Let's skip to the important part."

"_**You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you." **_

Her eyes turned to slits, but the smile remained on her lips.

"Won't you come with me?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Why would I do that?"

Slowly, gently, she put her hand over his. "Because nothing holds you back."

"I need a bit more incentive than that."

"Do you?"

"And there's Seb."

"Kill him."

"_**Because I've beaten you."**_

Sherlock snorted.

"Tonight?"

The Woman nodded.

"Yes, of course. You know where they are."

"You want me to just barge in and kill him? I can't do that. He must have given orders, were he to die in such a way."

_**"And you know what?"**_

"Are you sure?"

"No. But I'm not sure he hasn't either. I won't take the risk."

She sighed.

"_**In the end it was easy."**_

"Well. Have you figured it out, then?" she asked.

"It will all end as it began?"

"_**It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people."**_

She nodded.

_**It will all end as it began...**_

"Did you figure out when what began?" the Woman went on.

Sherlock's phone vibrated.

**Now they're heading to Roland-Kerr Further Education College. SJ**

The Woman arched an eyebrow, which Sherlock ignored.

"_**And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them! Ah well."**_

The ordinary people. Got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. Sherlock paled.

_What's the problem, Sherlock? The final problem._

"Mr. Holmes?"

_Final. The last problem, the ultimate one; but also the most important. _

_The one that should answer the question: What's the point?_

_The one whose answer should leave no doubt._

_The most fundamental one, just like the final was the principal note in a mode._

_To live, or not to live?_

_And if to live..._

"Mr. Holmes are you all right?"

_Once you've known the thrill of taking a life, it's not that you can't stop.  
><em>

_It's just that nothing else makes you feel more alive. _

_Nothing else seems to have a meaning. _

_You've got so close to life itself, the power over life and death, that edge where you stand and know that with one little gesture you will put an absolute, irreversible end to everything that a person once was and is and could be, then everything else is tasteless. _

_Everything else is meaningless. _

"Mr. Holmes...?"

_You feel surrounded by people who don't realize the value of life. _

_You know, he must have felt it too when he came back from the war. Boredom. Meaninglessness... He must have felt it too... _

_You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha. _

_If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you. _

_I have been reliably informed that I don't have one._

_But we both know that's not quite true._

_You'd do anything... anything at all, to stop being bored. _

_Got yourself a fan. _

_That was... amazing. _

_That website of yours, your fan told me about it._

_I looked you up on the internet last night. Found your website. The Science of Deduction. _

_Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes? _

_That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever. _

It will all end as it began.

Suddenly Sherlock felt very cold. He had a bitter, electric taste in his mouth. He jumped to his feet.

"I understood," he finally answered, and started running.

As _it_ began.

Ran outside.

_It._ There was never just one fan.

Ran into the street.

This was never a one-to-one.

Hailed a cab.

There had always been John.

"To Roland-Kerr Further Education College, please."

The day Moriarty first manifested himself to Sherlock was also the day John broke into his life.

The day John shot Moriarty's little messenger.

The Pool was never the beginning.

It had merely been the confirmation.

_You've already bitten into the apple of knowledge. _

"Can you please drive faster?"

"I can't, sir, I'm sorry."

_You _know _already. You just won't acknowledge the answer._

"I'll give you twice as much if you get me there in less than fifteen minutes."

"I'll try, sir."

_You're a fool, Sherlock. Such a fool. _

Right now Sherlock could hardly deny it. Why had it taken him so much time? Because he hadn't taken into consideration the other part of the symmetry. The other half.

_Jim was right. You can be like everybody else. _

It was never just about Jim and himself.

_You don't realize the value of life. _

And Jim had understood that very quickly. That was why he'd kidnapped John – the ultimate victim in their great game, the last one to get kidnapped and wrapped in Semtex, the one Jim sent to their secret rendezvous in his own stead.

_You don't realize how fragile, how short it is. _

"**If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."**

**"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." **

**"But we both know that's not quite true." **

Sherlock was trying to call Shinwell, to no avail. "The line is engaged. Please call back later."

He typed a text.

**Are you there? Are you at the school? **

_You just don't understand how _final _the final problem is._

Oh yes, he did.

"Please drive faster," he said again. The cabbie gave him a look, but did not answer.

The minutes felt like hours. Sherlock thought about jumping off the cab and running, several times, but it was always fear talking, and not intelligence. Intelligence told him the quickest way to get there was to remain in the cab nicely and jump out as soon as he got there. Which he did, eventually.

"Thank you, please just wait here for me!" he told the man, giving him a handful of banknotes. "I'll give you twice as much if you're here when I come back."

He ran off, then stopped dead in front of the buildings. Right, or left? He'd gone left when it all happened three years ago. John had gone right. Sherlock did not waver. He ran to the room where it had all happened on that fateful day when an old dying man screamed the name of his criminal pendant, the name of the man who would make his life the most pleasant of games, the name of the man who would turn his life into hell. The day when a man he'd just met saved his life by taking another's.

_John Watson is a proper hero, Sherlock. A real warrior, if you see what I mean. _

_I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you. So clever. But what's the point in being clever if you can't prove it?_

Sherlock ran, and ran, like in a nightmare, when it feels like you are running on the spot, not progressing, not getting anywhere. Why was he so slow? No. Perhaps it was his brain that was going too fast. The voices were hammering in, quick as lightning, yet as clear as day.

_I mean... Very righteous, see? Pledged his allegiance to you and– _

_Still the addict. But... this is what you're really addicted to. _

He was running.

_He would have given his life for you. _

Running.

_You'd do anything... anything at all, to stop being bored. _

Still running.

_He would have killed for you._

Always running.

_You're not bored now, are you?_

He burst into the room.

_Just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort. _

But it was empty. There was nobody there.

_I told you how this ends. _

Dread filled him as he walked into the room. He turned his head towards the window, and saw them.

_Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it. _

John and Seb, standing, face to face; the latter holding the former at gunpoint.

_I don't have to die… if I've got you. _

Seb was wearing the same shirt as when they'd quarrelled and he'd left the hotel room ignoring the gun pointed at his back.

_You won't shoot, Sherlock. You can't._

Sherlock armed the gun he had brought with him.

_You won't shoot, Sherlock, because you have no idea what will happen to John Watson if you do._

"Oh yes, I do."

He fired.

* * *

><p><em>I wish I was special <em>

_But I'm a creep  
>I'm a weirdo<br>What the hell am I doing here?_

* * *

><p>"Seb, please, just drop the gun."<p>

Then he ran again, to where both men are. To the other side of the mirror. So that's how the symmetry ends. The scene as it unfolds once he has joined Seb and John is anything but pleasant. But it is harmonious, Sherlock must concede. Symmetrical.

The metallic taste in his mouth is overridden by the more bitter and electric one of fear. Not the fear of what will happen to Seb – Sherlock knows that already, there is no helping it, the story has to end and Sherlock cannot deny Seb that – not the fear of what will happen to John – he's safe, now – but of what will happen to _him_ once Seb is gone and John has no one to turn to in the room but him. For now, he's still begging the sniper.

"Seb, please, just drop the gun."

Moran gives John a smile, and Sherlock is surprised to see it is genuine. Maybe all his smiles had been genuine.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Sebastian turns to him a little and winks. Sherlock blinks, not sure he has seen correctly.

"Yeah, Sherlock, you have," Moran says quietly. "Hope you can see without me holding those stupid eggplants for you. You geniuses are so fucked up." He says it softly. Almost tenderly. "Well, John. I wish you good luck with that!"

John's eyes widen. He moves towards Seb but is too far, too slow. The sniper has already mouthed the gun and shot himself.

"No... no..."

Sherlock does not bat an eyelid, but John starts trembling.

Great. Now the doctor's state is even worse. If he had been in shock previously, now...

He turns to Sherlock, who instinctively steps back.

"Sherlock... What's going on? Just _what_ is going on?"

His voice breaks.

This is more than Sherlock can take. So he does the only thing he can think of. The only logical thing to do.

He turns around, and runs.

He thinks he's never run so much in his whole life.

He is reminded of that day when he and John chased the cabbie after they'd had a semblance of dinner at Angelo's.

He hears John shout his name and run after him but ignores it.

He prays the cabbie he took to get here likes money and is outside waiting for him.

He is indescribably relieved when he sees that yes, the cabbie has been waiting.

"To Heathrow."

"What?"

"SHERLOCK! WAIT, SHERLOCK!"

"To Heathrow! Drive, now!"

The cabbie complies just as John gets to the car. Too late.

Sherlock only starts breathing when he can no longer see the doctor's silhouette running behind them.

"Do you have a flight?" the cabbie asks, sounding rather flummoxed.

"Hopefully," Sherlock answers laconically. He takes out his mobile phone, and notices his hands are shaking. Uncontrollably. Frowning down at them, he starts to type a text nonetheless.

_"No... Impossible..." _

**Roland-Kerr Further Education College, building on the right when you get there, **

_"Sherlock..." _

**first floor, room with the broken window – dead body, Sebastian Moran. **

_"Sherlock... You're..." _

**John must be around somewhere, in shock. **

_"What? No! Don't." _

**I have been told he has a better sense of direction now, but considering his mental state I doubt it will help him find his way home.  
><strong>

_"Sherlock he tried to..." _

**He called an ambulance, cancel it. **

_"Sherlock, what are you–" _

**Make sure he doesn't get involved in this. **

_"Seb..." _

**Bring him back to his wife.  
><strong>

_"Seb, please, just drop the gun." _

**SH**

Less than five seconds after he has pressed the SEND button, his phone rings. Mycroft. Idiot. Why is he calling back?

_"No... no..." _

Sherlock opens the window on his side and throws the phone out.

"What the..." the cabbie begins, before shutting his mouth as his eyes meet Sherlock's glare.

It feels like his rib cage is about to explode. The bitterness in his mouth is making him dizzy. Slowly, he takes the envelope Sebastian gave him. It has a red seal, with a magpie on it. Sherlock's hands keep shaking but he still breaks the seal, rips the envelope open, takes the letter, and unfolds it.

It is blank.

Completely blank. A white sheet of paper.

Sherlock bursts out laughing, madly.

_"Sherlock... What's going on?"_

He wishes his hands would stop trembling. He can't stop hearing the voice.

"_Just what is going on?" _

Suddenly the cabbie brakes, abruptly.

"What the fuck!" he shouts. Sherlock is frozen on the back seat. His mind has gone blank. Blank like the sheet of paper he's holding.

A man has just jumped in front of the car, stopping it effectively.

John.

"Get out of the car, Sherlock," he orders.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" the cabbie shouts, opening his door and getting out, furious. John raises his hand and holds him at gunpoint. The man lets out a cry and steps back, trembling. "What the fuck? What the fuck is this?"

The idiot. Well. He can't know the gun isn't loaded. Can't know John will never shoot him.

Slowly, Sherlock gets out of the car. Closes the door behind him. John leaves the cabbie and walks up to him. As soon as he's no longer threatened with a gun, the cabbie gets back into his car and drives off hysterically. Sherlock cannot blame him.

"Sherlock..." John says. He looks like he wants to say more. But the words seem to get stuck in his throat. He drops the gun. His hands are trembling.

"You shouldn't have taken the gun," Sherlock says quietly. "It's the murder weapon."

But John isn't listening. He keeps walking towards him, and Sherlock doesn't step back, so eventually John is standing right against him, almost touching him. Tentatively, he raises his hand, and touches Sherlock's chest. He freezes.

Definitely in shock, Sherlock observes, ignoring his own shaking hands. Ignoring the pain John's touch gives him, how heavy his hand feels against his chest, burning, engraving some wordless message within him.

"John, I–" he begins in a croaking voice he doesn't even recognize.

"Let's go home, Sherlock" John cuts in. His hand is still trembling against Sherlock's chest, but there is no tremor in his voice. "Let's go back to 221B."

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><p><em>I don't belong here <em>

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><p>.<p>

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_tbc_


	48. Volenti non fit injuria

**A/N: **Only five chapters left after this one! I really intend to finish this story before the end of the summer, and I'll do my best. Reviews are very, very appreciated. Hope you enjoy this chapter :)

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

__**Volenti non fit injuria**___: ___"to a willing person, injury is not done", principle of voluntary assumption of risk__

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

_You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link._

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><p><strong>Chapter XVLII: Volenti non fit injuria<strong>

_Corner of your heart, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>There's a corner of your heart for me.<br>_

* * *

><p>"No... Impossible..."<p>

Seb laughs strenuously.

"Or it's a miracle. What d'you think, John?"

You stand up. Your eyes are fixed on the man who just entered the room, a little breathless.

You meet his eyes. The room disappears.

"Sherlock..."

"Hello, Sherlock!" Seb exclaims as if the consulting detective's presence was the most natural thing in the world – as if he'd been expecting it. "For a second I thought you wouldn't make it in time..."

You stare. Your brain has stopped functioning. You simply stare. Sherlock. It really is Sherlock. Seb is speaking again, but you barely register. You look at him, then at Sherlock again. Sherlock.

"We don't have much time. John called an ambulance. Said there was a shot. Soon the cops will be here too."

"I see."

He sees? What does he see? You don't see anything. Sherlock. Right, you see Sherlock. Sherlock is standing there, speaking. As if it were natural. As if his presence could have been expected. Slowly, he walks towards you and Seb, bends down; his fingers wrap around something black. The black thing comes into focus. Your gun.

Sherlock is standing just a few steps away from you, holding your gun. His sudden closeness snaps you out of your shock.

"Sherlock... You're..." you begin, then find yourself unable to continue.

Sherlock. If Sherlock is standing there speaking and Sebastian is seeing it too then you're not dreaming. This feels very much like a nightmare, though. Incoherent. Doesn't make sense. Seb, a killer? Sherlock... alive?

"Come on, Sherlock, I told you there's no time," Seb is whining again. Time. Three years. It's been almost three years. Has he been alive all this time? Stupid. Of course he's been alive. He can't possibly have been dead then alive again. Can he? "Now gimme the gun. This wound bloody hurts, y'know."

Gun? "What? No!" Did you just say that out loud? Yes, apparently. "Don't," you babble, panic rising in your chest again, because you don't know what's happening, you have no idea what's happening, it doesn't make any sense, doesn't make any sense at all, but something _is _happening and you have no control over it whatsoever, everything just seems to be slipping between yours fingers, you've got no hold on anything, "Sherlock he tried to..."

Your eyes widen in horror. He has given the gun back to him. Sherlock has given back your gun to Seb. Your _loaded_ gun. Seb catches it casually, as if it were natural. As if it were expected that Sherlock would listen to _him_ and not to you. Why is he ignoring you so blatantly? What's going on?

"Oh. I almost forgot. Here."

They keep talking as if you weren't even there. They act like they've always known each other. Their gestures are coordinated like those of people who spend most of their time together. You open your mouth, try to utter something coherent. Something that makes sense.

"Sherlock, what are you–"

"Shh, Johnny boy," Seb cuts in, aiming the gun at you. Your own gun. Which Sherlock has just given him back. "Be good. Sherlock and I have things to say to each other. So be quiet."

You can feel all colours leaving your face and the world spinning around you. Your mind is desperately trying to wrap itself around what's being said, around some element of the situation, something you could understand, something your brain could form some coherent thought about. You fail.

Seb bursts out laughing. "I'm good at imitating him, aren't I? Dear old Jim."

**You can talk, Johnny boy.**

You glance at Sherlock, waiting for him to look back, to acknowledge your presence. In vain. His eyes are fixed on Seb, and on Seb alone.

"You know, he gave me only one envelope for this," Seb is telling Sherlock. **Isn't he sweet?** "Just one letter." What are they talking about? "Sometimes I had a few, as you may imagine." Why do they understand each other so well? **I can see why you like having him around.** "Depending on how things turned out, I was to give you one, or the other." Why is Sherlock ignoring you? **But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets.** "It was quite a game for me too, loads of riddles." Why is he ignoring you? **They're so touchingly loyal.** "He always liked riddles." Why the hell is he ignoring you!? **But oops!** You want to shout at him and ask him, but your lips remain sealed, your voice stuck in your throat. **You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.** It physically hurts. How can a voice take so much space in one's throat? **Gotcha.** In one's head. "Anyway. Only one letter this time." S. "The final letter!" K. "You understand what it means, don't you, Sherlock?" _You_ don't. You definitely don't. "So shall we take bets?" Bets? Is this a joke? "What d'you think _he_ predicted?" Who cares? "That you would win and shoot me, or...?" Who cares about that when Sherlock is there, standing in the room? Aliv–

"Seb," Sherlock says quietly. Softly. You don't remember his voice ever being so soft. Maybe when he apologized to Molly that night on Christmas Eve. Did he ever say your name like this? Did he ever call you in such a way? Seb. John. No, you can't remember him ever saying your name so softly. His eyes are fixed on Seb, still. He doesn't seem to see anything else. Something in you breaks.

"Thanks for giving me the gun, man," Seb says. There is a strain in his voice. He must be in pain. Hopefully the ambulance will arrive soon. Well. Hopefully before somebody else is shot, too. "It was... It wasn't always pleasant, being with you all the time these past few years, but..." Your blood turns cold. These past few years? Did he...? "I'm still glad it happened." It? Glad _what_ happened? You look at Sherlock again, but of course he's just staring at Seb. Still. "I'll give you one last thing – and that's from me, not from Jim." How long have they known each other? Have they been together all this time? "Actually, that's for you too, John." You turn to Seb sharply. There must be a look of betrayal on your face. Or shock, most likely. Yeah, you're probably in shock. "But you got the lesson already." Did you? What lesson? "I wonder sometimes if us 'pets' weren't smarter than the 'masters', what d'ya think?" Nothing. You can't think. Not like this. But there's something... Something in his tone, perhaps, that makes you wish the ambulance would really arrive soon, because he's in pain, and he looks like he's about to do something crazy, and no matter how much you've been fooled by the both of them, whatever their reasons, you know he's being honest here, that his words are actually sincere, and you can't help but hope that...

"Seb..." The word escapes your lips before you even know what you want to say. Slowly, your mind is starting to wrap around things a bit. Around elements.

_The other victims only got one bottle, but Sherlock was special, you see. _

_Why are you doing this?_

_To finish the game._

_What game?_

_The one Jim and Sherlock played. Involving us, of course._

_I never lied to you._

_He did say you were a bit slow, but... _

_I was Jim's 'John Watson'. _

_Are you saying Moriarty is still alive?_

_Moriarty? Yeah. One could say that._

_You were a friend of Chris's!_

_I approached her in order to get to you._

_But why?_

_It was part of the plan. Part of the problem._

_What problem?_

_The final problem._

_Sherlock was special, you see. _

_Special._

"At a funeral recently, they read an excerpt of _Romans. _Y'know, St Paul's epistles," Seb goes on. You know. Mary told you. It was Ron's funeral. _John._ I killed Ron. He was a friend. But he saw something he shouldn't have. It hurt. It actually hurt. But I killed him. "__So I read the whole text again afterwards. There's this sentence in it, made me laugh my head off." Laugh? Did he actually laugh? And to say Mary thought he was depressed... "So appropriate, I thought." No, that was correct, too. _It hurt. It actually hurt._ "Almost heard Jim's voice say it to me." You stare. "Oh, don't look at me like that, I know you _both_ hear voices." Automatically, your gaze turns to Sherlock. But he is still looking at Seb, still ignoring you. What's going on? _Seb. Did Moriarty hire you to do this? - It depends which one you're talking about._ So does that mean...? "Here's the sentence: 'Owe no man any thing, but to love one another: for he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law.'" _I've got to call an ambulance. Don't bother, John. He'll be here soon._ "_Owe _no man anything! And the law! Did you hear that? Ha ha ha!" Mad. He's mad. Is it the blood loss? He chokes and you begin to rush to his side but he raises your gun against you and holds you at gunpoint. His grip firm. His gaze unwavering. Defeated, you step back. Sebastian smiles.

"Thank you, John. You're a real friend. I'm really glad I met you, y'know that? So please no hard feelings. Pals, yeah?"

You stare, unable to reply. Unable to get anything out of your throat. The silence stretches until finally you manage to rip a few syllables off your tongue.

"Seb, please, just drop the gun."

Seb gives you another smile. It actually feels like a gift, like he's really giving it to you, smiling only at you, only for you. Seb has many smiles, his mocking grin, his cheeky smirk, his tender if a little condescending smile, his theatrical smile, his excited grin, and then, this, his knowing smile. At first you thought it was almost apologetic, but then you realized it was really sympathetic. Humane. So very human.

"Yeah, Sherlock, you have," Seb says quietly, and you have no idea what he's talking about, but it shocks you and hurts you to see that he speaks so casually, so artlessly to Sherlock. Sherlock. "Hope you can see without me holding those stupid eggplants for you. You geniuses are so fucked up." You can only concur, although you have no idea what he means by eggplants. His voice is soft. Tender. He looks at you again, but doesn't let you say a word. "Well, John. I wish you good luck with that!" The encouragement is genuine, you can hear it. But he gives you no time to answer it. No time to run to him, no time to stop him. One moment he's grinning like an idiot and the next he pulls the trigger. Your eyes widen as a veil falls over his.

"No... no..."

You are vaguely aware that you are the one who has uttered the words. No, no... They keep echoing in your mind. You don't know how many times you've said them. Or if you've said them out loud at all. You don't feel very steady and you realize you're shaking. Seb's body has fallen limp on the floor, and a puddle of blood is slowly forming around his head – a macabre aureole.

Instinctively, you turn back to Sherlock, because he can't possibly keep ignoring you now, he won't ignore you for a corpse, even though he's already done that a lot in the past, but not now, right, he wouldn't do that now, would he?

"Sherlock... What's going on?" you ask, and you're almost proud of the way your voice comes out. "Just _what_ is going on?" Your voice breaks. Well, so much for your pride. You feel like you could almost break into hysterical laughter right now. It almost sounds good. This is absurd. All of this is absurd. You're still shaking. Can't stop it. Something like cold fury is bubbling within you.

But before you can decide whether exploding now is a good idea, Sherlock does the most stupid, unforgivable thing you've ever seen him do.

He turns around, and runs.

He must be kidding.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!"

Your legs have reacted faster than your voice, thankfully, and are already running after him. You have no idea whether you're furious or terrified or disgusted with the world or hopeful – this state you're in reminds you of the war. The urgency at war, when there's a wound to be treated. Can't give in to panic, but still panic is looming. The adrenaline, rising. Fear. The necessity to act fast. To not make one single mistake, always lethal under such circumstances. You never considered yourself to be clever, never felt especially clever, but in those moments you were efficient. Life and death situations. Yes, you understood Seb. Whatever his reasons were, your hand would not have quivered either. Except you didn't only shoot at people, you tried to save their lives, too.

"SHERLOCK, WAIT! SHERLOCK!"

The idiot dared have a cab waiting for him. Symmetry, was it? _You geniuses are so fucked up_.

The adrenaline. The fear. Sheer panic. The necessity of not giving in to panic. To be cold-blooded, efficient. To refuse chaos. To impose order.

Your eyes have remembered the numbers and letters on the cab's licence plate but again your legs have been faster still. Here, take a right, avoid the main road. _Here, stop the bleeding before the soldier bleeds to death. _Left at bakery, then right, then down back street to get to traffic light. _Here, clean the wound before it gets infected, but bullets are flying, first get body somewhere safe(r). _Heathrow, he'd said Heathrow. Right, then left, then right again. You never ran so fast in your life. Not when you were a boy late for school and the teacher was the most intimidating person you'd ever met. Not when Harry called to say there had been a terrible accident and your parents... Not when your life depended on it in the war. Not when Mary called and said you had to come and get her to hospital, _now,_ because your son was ready to come out. Left, right, then left again, run down two blocks, right, and at the traffic light...

You come hurling at full speed on the road. Your eyes have caught sight of the cab and sent the message directly to your legs without your brain bothering to make you aware of what was happening – you throw yourself in front of the cab and open your arms, slamming your hands down on the car hood.

"What the fuck!" the cabbie shouts from inside the car. So loud, car windows are open, his voice resonates in your head, feels like the whole street must have heard him. Doesn't matter.

You raise your head, panting, and look straight at the man sitting behind the cabbie. Catch his eye, and don't let go.

"Get out of the car, Sherlock," you say, and some part of your brain recognizes your captain voice.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" the cabbie exclaims, opening his door and getting out of the car in fury. You understand. But you're not in the mood. Without batting an eye, you raise your hand and aim the gun at him. So you'd taken it, then. You hadn't even realized. You took the gun from Seb's hand. Now that you think about it, you remember the warmth of his hand. It had still been warm. He'd just fired. You are shaking.

But your hand isn't.

"What the fuck? What the fuck is this?" the cabbie cries out, stepping back at once.

You couldn't care less. You're not even paying attention to him. You just want him out of the picture. Deliberately, Sherlock gets out of the car. Closes the door behind him.

Your eyes are fixed on him. Your body walks up to him of his own accord. Now your hands are trembling. The cabbie is out of the picture, the empty gun isn't needed, there was only one bullet anyway, a bullet that ended up in Seb's brain...

"Sherlock..." you say, and want to slap yourself for not succeeding in uttering more. The words choke you. You don't know how a voice can take so much room, be so heavy, so stiff and tough in your throat, stifling you when it should be what allows you to communicate. Your hands are useless now. You can feel them drop the gun.

"You shouldn't have taken the gun," Sherlock's voice comes, quietly. "It's the murder weapon."

Those are his first words to you. Even in your shocked state, you have time to think that you'll probably find it funny later, when things have settled down, when everything isn't so blurry and incomprehensible. Your legs keep walking, knowing where to go, where to stop. Your hands keep trembling but you realize they've dropped the gun because they too know what to do. Instinctively, almost mechanically, one moves towards Sherlock, and touches his chest. You freeze. The contact of your fingers barely brushing against his shirt burns you. It physically burns you. Slowly, your hand presses a little more and comes to rest on Sherlock's chest, your palm wide open against it. It's hammering, the beating so loud the vibration is almost stronger than the trembling in your hand.

"John, I–" he croaks.

But this time you're the one to interrupt. This time, you are the one to lead.

"Let's go home, Sherlock. Let's go back to 221B."

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><p><em>There's a corner of your heart just for me.<br>I will pack my bags just to stay in the corner of your heart.  
><em>_Just to stay in the corner of your heart._

* * *

><p>The ride back home is silent. Outside the cab, London is alive, full of clatters and laughter and chatter and shouts sometimes, so full of sound. And fury, your brain adds oh so helpfully. But you're not furious. There's no fury in the cab, no sound either. Actually, that's not quite true. If you concentrate, you can hear Sherlock's breathing. And once you've heard it, you cannot hear anything else.<p>

Outside there are sounds and lights and colours, but they all glide over Sherlock as if he were a ghost, or as if everything but him were mere shadows, illusions. Lights and colours glide over his face as the cabbie drives through town. But behind the shades and glitters of the outside world, you can see his complexion is ashen. His face, somewhat emaciated. His eyes seem bigger, his lips fuller. Or maybe not. Just the shadows and the lights of the street passing on his face and playing with your mind.

Playing.

You can't ask him anything before you get to the flat. So you just watch the lights and colours of the city glide over this face you never thought you'd see again. He has lost weight. He looks tired. His features are drawn. How much weight has he lost? Maybe not so much. Maybe he's just exhausted.

But he's alive. He's actually alive. As if your body needed further confirmation, your hand rises towards him and touches him again. His arm, this time. Barely a brush. It sends a jolt of electricity down your spine. Your hand presses his shirt more, squeezes very lightly. He turns to you in surprise, and has a pained look. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, then shuts it again without having uttered a word. Your hand on his arm squeezes a bit more. Alive. He is alive.

You have to avert your gaze and keep it fixed on the things passing by outside, things you do not even see, to pull yourself together.

You're glad when finally the cab stops in front of the door and you can get out – too many cabs for one day, too many things to deal with all at once. You look up and see the lights aren't on in the flat. Mary must be sleeping already. You turn to Sherlock to tell him you'll have to be quiet, but can't say anything when you see . He's alive. Sherlock is alive. Your right hand starts trembling and you turn abruptly to the door, open it for him, wait until he goes in. You cannot take your eyes off him for more than three seconds. You counted.

Everything is dark inside. You feel Sherlock tense beside you, and think you understand how he must feel, seeing this place after all this time – seeing it when obviously he never planned on seeing it ever again. Never planned on seeing you ever again.

The flat is dark, but not only; the moment you step in you realize it is empty. Panic swells in your chest again, until Sherlock brushes your arm and points towards a note on the table. You turn on the light and read:

__**Hey John! Can't sleep here after all; Blake keeps crying no matter what I do so I'll try to make him sleep in my flat. If I'm not back when you are, it means I succeeded! :) Cheers  
>-Mary<strong>__

You sigh in relief. Fine. They're fine. Today was so twisted, everything went so wrong, you don't know how you could have handled it had they... But they're fine. They're fine. You turn back to Sherlock.

He is standing very still in the middle of the living-room. But his eyes are moving everywhere around the room, taking everything in. A wave of fondness hits you, so violent it feels like a blow and you stand dizzy for a moment, not saying anything, not moving either.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" you finally ask, and Sherlock looks at you as if you were mad. You ignore him and go to the kitchen. "I definitely need one. I'll make one for you too."

He doesn't answer. You keep glancing at him every two seconds to check if he's still here, and at one point he seems to have mercy upon you and comes to stand closer, almost next to you – in your field of vision. The water boils and you still can't get a word out of your throat. When you pour the boiled water in the two mugs you got out your hand is shaking. Sherlock looks away. Here's the pained look again.

"John, I–"

"How can you be alive?" you cut in. Strangely, he seems startled by your question. As if this wasn't what he'd expected you to ask.

"I'm sorry I ran," he says.

You look at each other in silence.

You didn't ask what he thought you'd ask.

He didn't answer your question.

Staring him in the eye, you realize how lost you both are. Communicating isn't going to be easy. Good thing you made some tea.

"Let's sit down, Sherlock," you say as steadily as possible. "And please, explain. You owe me that, at least."

At yours words, he pales considerably, and for a second you fear he'll pass out. But he doesn't. Your hand is trembling again and you try to will it to stop. To no avail. Unnerved, you still take your mug and turn to the living-room, but your grip isn't firm enough and you drop it. It shatters on the kitchen floor and you just stand, stunned, looking at the pieces scattered around. It was your_ In Arduis Fidelis_ mug. Your mug from the Royal Army Medical Corps. You liked it. Slowly, Sherlock opens the cupboard and takes out another one. A mug with a yellow chick on it. He puts another tea bag in it and pours boiled water. You watch him, voiceless, wondering how much you've missed if now Sherlock can do something so domestic as naturally as he used to put eyeballs in the microwave. He takes your mug and his and puts them on the kitchen table, then sits down.

"You'll clean that later," he says, motioning towards the mess on the floor. You sit into the chair opposite him.

Sherlock swallows, glancing around like a trapped animal. He doesn't look at ease to say the least. He takes his mug, then puts it back down on the table without having taken a sip, looks at you, looks away.

"What do you want to know?" he asks.

"Everything," you answer, as if this wasn't obvious.

And so he starts speaking. At first his voice takes all the room in your mind and you can't make sense of what he is saying. All you can hear is his voice, without contents, his voice, without words. But he seems to notice, and repeats things accordingly, until he's sure you've properly heard what he's saying. As if it were natural. As if it were expected that you'd be so messed up you wouldn't even be able to focus on anything but his voice. You missed it so much. It is with wonder that you listen to it. As if just hearing his voice was a miracle. And perhaps it is.

The more he speaks, the more assurance he gains. His stance is more confident, his tone, more assertive. It seems to calm him down. Giving you facts. Only facts, you realize. Very specific, very detailed. Dates, places, actions. This must have been the way he would have written down his own cases had he bothered to do so. You almost understand why he was disappointed in your blog. Facts. Logical lines of reasoning which led to actions. Conversations he remembers, word for word. The one on St Bart's rooftop chills you to the bone. The one Sherlock had with Molly in the lab before he jumped makes you sick with jealousy. He doesn't tell you many discussions he had with Seb. Actually, he tells you none. He must not consider it relevant. Not important. Superfluous. But you know, from what you've seen, that his relationship with Seb must have had a lot more importance than he lets on. Perhaps he doesn't realize it. Perhaps he doesn't know how to voice it. Perhaps he doesn't want to tell you. The words fall out of his mouth fluently. Your brain processes them at your pace, and you know Sherlock repeats himself when he sees you have switched off. Your tea is still warm under your palm, your hand wrapped around the mug but not bringing it to your mouth. Sometimes your brain makes links, connects an event Sherlock has just recounted and things Seb said to you when he was still alive.

Alive. Dead. One life for another. How did it end up like this? Why did he have to die?

Sherlock stops speaking; his face comes back into focus. Then he starts speaking again, repeats what he was saying, probably. London. So Sherlock was in London. When was that? Around the time you took heroin in his room, right? Bitterness fills your mouth. But then what could he have done? What could he possibly have done? No. His attitude then was understandable. But after. Much after. When things had settled down. He could have told you then. He could have contacted you then, or have somebody contact you, anyone. Mycroft. You'd seen Mycroft at the Diogenes. Why didn't he tell you anything?

Oh. Sherlock has stopped speaking again. Hopefully you didn't say anything about heroin. You glance at him, but he seems to be only waiting for you to listen to him again. Good. You haven't been babbling. Sorry, go on. Please go on. Eliska Šárka. Barcelona. What opera? Oh. Strange. Mary likes that song. Did you just say that out loud? Probably. Sherlock has stopped speaking again, is waiting for you to finish what you were saying. What were you saying? Never mind. Go on. The Golem? That's... Well. You would have done the same. Sherlock had no choice. It's all right. Hey. It's all right. He frowns down at you. But you understand. Maybe he doesn't think you can. Voicelessly, you put your hand on his, in support. He shivers. You take your hand away at once, and he gives you a look that says it's fine. Right. Go on. Brothels on Valentine's day? What does that have to do with anything? Nothing? Ah. OK. Are you sure? All right. Go on.

For some reason Sherlock falls quiet and this time you are the one waiting for him to continue. You want to put your hand on his again, as a silent way to say you're with him, that he can take his time; but you do not dare do it. Then Sherlock is speaking again and all you have to do is listen. IOU. Moriarty. Seb. Eliska again. Many others. Important people. People who owed Jim. Did you become Jim, Sherlock? No, what are you saying... All he became was Moriarty. It makes you shiver. No matter how you look at the man sitting in front of you, it's still Sherlock. Ah. He's stopped speaking again. You must have switched off once more. But who could expect you to be anything less than stunned by his presence? Sherlock... Sherlock is alive.

He waits until you've come back to reality. Patiently. Until you are ready to listen again. Other names. Other facts. Other things he's done. Other plans. Irene Adler. Wait, she's alive too? What the hell? Was she with Sherlock all this time? No. Right. Moran. _Seb._ Seb was with Sherlock most of the time. So much better.

"Sherlock."

The sound of your voice isn't pleasant to your own ears. That's not the voice you want to hear.

"Yes?"

"Is he still... Do you think... the ambulance...?"

"I texted Mycroft. He's being taken care of."

His tone is sharp. Cold.

"I'm sorry, it's not that what you were saying wasn't interesting, but I–"

"It's OK."

"What do you mean taken care of?"

He gives you a stare. You swallow. "Don't you care even a little bit?" you ask.

"Why should I?"

"Right. Why?"

He looks away. "There might be a trial. Mycroft will tell us. I didn't ask him to get rid of the body, if that's what you fear. He'll be buried."

"That's..." You fall silent. "I'm sorry. Go on."

* * *

><p><em>There is room beneath your bed for me. <em>

_There is room beneath your bed just for me._

* * *

><p>And so on he goes. The words keep falling out of his mouth, and your brain processes them more and more quickly. The final problem. Seb was right, they're so fucked up.<p>

"Are you saying the final problem was..."

"...to live, or not to live," Sherlock finishes for you. He looks down at his tea. He hasn't drunk at all. "And if to live, how?"

"How?" you echo.

He nods. Looks away. "Playing with Moriarty was one option. The first option. Playing against him. A good old villain against the hero. But I was never a hero. I was never a good person."

"That's–"

"Moriarty understood me perfectly," Sherlock interrupts, and your heart twists at the words. "But he hadn't planned on you getting in the picture. He knew my mind, knew how I worked. Had become a fan of mine, you see. The catch-me-if-you-can type."

"Is that to say I'm the other type of fan?" you ask rather moodily, before turning crimson and slapping yourself mentally. "Sorry, forget that."

Sherlock gives you a sideways look, but doesn't make any comment. "The moment you entered the picture everything was different," he continues. "Hence the bombs. Hence the Game."

You snort incredulously.

"What, are you saying he did all of this just to remind you he'd been the first one to break into your life, with the Carl Powers case?"

A small, small smile lights up Sherlock's face, and you stare, dazzled. "Not only. He wanted to show me how superior he was to me. Wanted to show me that if I chose this way of life, then I couldn't contend with him. He was right. We both knew it wasn't quite true. Hence the problem. The final problem. Is it worth it? Living. Deep down, is it worth it? And if it is, how is it worth it? If the answer is to live, then... how? I had a choice. Two possible ways of life, quite different. It turned out I didn't pick the one Moriarty would have been satisfied with."

"Did you know all this even before you met Irene Adler? Even before you... jumped?"

Sherlock averts his gaze.

"No. I didn't. I didn't understand him, or what he had in mind, before our conversation on the rooftop."

"Bart's?"

He nods. Then he tells you the conversation they had then, word for word. Without any hesitation. Without a pause. He remembers it all. And as he says them again for you he ingrains each and every word in your mind, indelible. How alone he must have felt. How scared before he jumped. Scared of the fall, scared of the snipers, scared for you, scared for himself... He hadn't planned that Moriarty would shoot himself, had he? It was as if Moriarty was telling him_ See? I too can make choices you wouldn't have expected, I too can surprise you, take the turn you won't take_. Two different ways of life. The one with Moriarty could have only been a one-to-one. The moment Jim decided to re-establish the symmetry, he had already made up his mind. He had already decided that he would shoot himself.

"Did you understand this all at once before you jumped?"

"No. It took months. It took years. I had other things in mind. IOU," he replies, rather shifty.

You look down at your tea and stir it slowly, which is stupid because you haven't put milk in it, and there's nothing to stir.

"But... in the end, it was never about IOU, was it?" you ask eventually.

The smile on Sherlock's lips is wistful; he's not even looking at you. It doesn't feel like his smile is for you.

"It was always about what we owed each other," he says quietly. "What he owed me, what I owed him... Since he decided to kill himself, he sent me to hell in his stead. So I would see the other side of the coin. It was double-edged."

You arch a perplexed eyebrow.

"How so?"

Sherlock drinks. His tea must be cold. Yours is, by now.

"On the one hand I could see if I liked it. If I liked it better than... this. Living here." He doesn't say "with you" but you hear it nonetheless. "On the other hand, it was his way to show me how boring his whole empire was without a counterpart. Without me."

"Only ordinary people," you murmur.

Sherlock nods silently.

Then suddenly he starts telling you every fairy tale Moriarty sent him in his letters after his death. Every note he wrote after the tales. Something is different. You can see Sherlock is slipping. These are not mere facts anymore. These are feelings. The more he goes on speaking, the more unsettled he seems to be. His voice is neutral, matter-of-fact. It is matter-of-factly that he tells you about the Song to the moon and the Magpie's nest and Snow White and the Behemoth. Matter-of-factly that he tells you again about the Golem as if he hadn't just told you about it, replays the scene, the blood, the flow, the cold...

You put your hand on his.

"Sherlock. It's all right. We can talk about it another time."

"But I–"

"It's all right."

You don't know if this is PTSD. You don't care for the medical name. It means nothing. Just words to put on symptoms. All you know is that Sherlock is in pain. All you know is that Sherlock is lost.

"Do you want to rest?" you ask.

"I'm not tired," he retorts, sounding offended.

You smile at him. "Of course not."

He looks away with discomfort.

"So, erm." He pauses. "You? How have you been doing?"

You stare at him, speechless for a second. This situation is completely surreal.

"How I've been doing? Sherlock I thought you were..." Your voice breaks. Again. This is so frustrating. "I'm fine. God, better than fine." _You're alive. You're alive, Sherlock. Alive._

"Well, good. Good, it's good. If you're doing well, it's... good." He looks down in a way that reminds you of a child sitting down at dinner with adults and who doesn't dare ask if he can leave the table. "I should really go now, don't want to intrude."

He stands up and you feel like the rope you've grasped at last is slipping between your fingers again. A fall. This feels like a fall. Did Sherlock get this feeling as he fell from St Bart's rooftop? A fall. Moriarty was wrong. It feels nothing like flying. Rather the opposite. The only thing that holds you back are Sherlock's eyes, locked with yours. You don't know what he sees there,but you don't give a damn because whatever it is it makes him stay. Looking ashamed, he sits back down instantly.

"I'm sorry, John, I–"

"This is your flat," you cut in. Your right hand starts trembling again. "Mycroft said you bought it from Mrs. Hudson, left it to me on your will or something... I'm not paying any rent." Sherlock does not answer. His gaze is cast down. Your chest tightens. "Since you're not dead," you go on, hating the quiver in your voice, "this is your flat." He can't leave. Not now. Not ever, the most honest part of you admits. "Do you have anywhere else to go?"

"Hotel room. And across the street. Paid the lease until the end of the month."

You look away to hide the pain you know is showing in your eyes. So he never intended to come back. And he still doesn't. Your heart is hammering in your chest, frenzied, threatening to break your ribcage apart. Terror. Sheer terror. "What I mean is, this is your home," you insist, forcing the words out of your mouth. "If you don't want me around, I'll move out, but you shouldn't be the one to–"

"This was never my home," Sherlock interrupts. You freeze, and feel like you're falling. Falling, always further away. Always further away from him. "It was ours," Sherlock goes on, and you start breathing again. "I never lived here alone." Your chest hurts. How can one person ignite so much pain within you without even touching you? This is insane. "But you did. This flat is yours, John." Bullshit.

"Sherlock–"

"I should really go," he interrupts, standing up again – clearly afraid of the protest you are about to voice, afraid of the reproach in your voice; clearly running away.

"Where?" you ask, trying not to sound too accusing or too cutting.

Sherlock blinks. He swallows. You stand up as well and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, sit down," you tell him very, very gently. "I think you have to rest. I think you're exhausted."

"That's a lot of thinking," Sherlock grumbles. He looks embarrassed.

You chuckle. "And I can't think properly, right? But I'm a doctor, Sherlock." You understand. "And an ex-soldier, too," you add quietly. You understand what he's going through, partly. You're not him, of course, but...

Sherlock snorts, but his voice is rather shaky. "I haven't been to war, John."

"Yes you have. Sit down. Please." Your hand on Sherlock's shoulder squeezes lightly.

He sits down.

* * *

><p><em>I will leave this town just to sleep underneath your bed.<br>Just to sleep underneath your bed._

* * *

><p>"So, hum..." he begins, awkward as ever. "I heard you're married, now." The word doesn't sound right in his mouth.<p>

"Soon to be divorced," you correct, wondering why he is bringing that up, of all things you could have talked about.

"Why?" he asks candidly.

That's one of the things you always secretly liked about him. His bluntness. It was a bit too much at first _- "Why didn't I think of that?" "Because you're an idiot." -_ but as you got used to it you began to like it very much. The way he asked so directly about things he didn't understand, such as proper behaviour, like a defiant child who keeps asking questions about the world but whose tone is always half-accusing. _"Why? Why would it be that way?"_

"Because... we're not in love anymore." You get the feeling that you're talking to a child, perhaps your own, trying to explain things that concern him but cannot be easily understood. But this is Sherlock. _Sherlock._ More than ever you feel that the situation is surreal.

"But you married her," he points out.

"Yes, I loved her. I love her. I mean, I care very much about her. But she wants to have what we call a love life–"

"Can't she have it with you?"

"I guess not. She deserves better."

Sherlock eyes you suspiciously, not even trying to hide a doubtful frown. Your eyes instantly fall to his lips. You look away.

"I... As I said, I observed you these past few days," he says. "I had to put your flat under surveillance. Now, you know this is not my area, but it doesn't look like... like..."

"...like we're about to get a divorce?"

"Yes," he nods. "That."

He's got to stop nodding like that. He's got to stop pouting slightly.

Your eyes keep scanning his face, noticing the most insignificant details, the way one curl is flattened as if he's been sleeping on it, the way one eye is more bloodshot than the other although both have bags under them, how one ear is showing more than the other between the curls... You look away.

Sherlock too is looking around, avoiding to look at you, but he seems genuinely interested in the things he's seeing.

"Do you find the flat very changed?"

"It's still just as warm," Sherlock replies evasively. Warm? What does that mean?

"Are you cold?" you ask, and take the opportunity to touch him again – just his hand. It's icy. So cold it startles you. "Why are you so cold?!" You fear the worse. But Sherlock merely shrugs.

"Deleted."

"What?"

"I deleted things. Things I thought wouldn't be useful to me anymore."

You stare. "Like what a normal body temperature should be?"

He gives you a look. "No. Memories. Images. Sensations."

"Warmth?"

He shakes his head. You're lost. What is he saying?

"I deleted things that turned out to be linked to some part of my body. The hands, the throat, the nose, the mouth, the arm, the feet... Every limb. They were just memories. I only realized the coldness was linked to them when I got them back."

"Got them back?" you echo dumbly, knowing full well you're sounding stupid, but what can you do? You have no idea what he's talking about.

Sherlock nods absently. "Yes. Got them back. All at once. But the body remained cold."

You shiver. The body, he says. As if it wasn't his. As if he was talking about a dead body.

"What kind of memories?" you press on, just to make him talk, just to hear the sound of his voice again.

"Just... memories. It's fine. I can live with a cold body, John."

You give him a grave look.

"You can live, can you? So is that what you decided eventually?" You search his face. "How do yo intend to live from now on, Sherlock?"

* * *

><p><em>There's one minute of your day.<br>I will leave this man _

_Just to occupy one minute of your day._

* * *

><p>Sherlock seems lost for a moment. His eyes widen and he looks so young all you want to do is hold him tight and comfort him; reassure him and never let go.<p>

"From what I grasped, you didn't intend to come back, you didn't intend to tell me you weren't... dead. So what was it you wanted to do? What was your answer to the final problem?"

He shakes his head, voiceless. A trapped animal again. You regret the tone you used instantly.

"I'm sorry," you say, putting your hand on his, so cold. "I didn't mean... I just..."

"I have no place here," he blurts out. "The situation's changed, you have a life of your own, a family–"

"What do you mean, no place?! Sherlock, you–"

"There's no room for me here!"

"But we used to live here together!"

"You've got a wife."

"She lives next door."

"You've got a son."

"He's got a room in Mary's flat, and when he gets older..." You stop, realizing what you're about to say. Sherlock gives you a look. _See?_ You swallow.

"Do you want me out of the flat, Sherlock?"

"That is not what I am saying!" he exclaims, sounding very angry suddenly, standing up and starting to pace the room. He runs a hand in his hair. "This is why I didn't want to come back, too much trouble, can't handle this, don't want to, why should I? What am I even doing here? I–"

"Sherlock," you interrupt, putting a hand on his arm. "You came back because you didn't want me to die."

He stares at you, lost, struggling against his turmoil. You swallow with difficulty. Your throat is too tight.

"Just tell me... Why didn't you let me know? Not the first few weeks or months, maybe, but...Why did you run?" You see the look on his face and you understand this is the question he feared you'd ask at first. Not _"How can you be alive?"_ but _"Why did you run?" _

He hangs his head down. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "Please forgive me." You see the scene with Molly on Christmas replay in your mind. Same scene, all over again.

"I didn't want to see you again," Sherlock croaks. "I wanted to see you again. I didn't know what I wanted. I don't know what I–"

"Shh, it's all right," you cut in, pulling him into a hug. You hugged Harry only once in your life, and that was when you had to organize the funeral of your parents together. This is the same kind of hug. The kind of hug you give somebody to pull them together, to prevent them from breaking to pieces. But you can feel Sherlock stiffen in your arms, his muscles becoming tense. Yet you refuse to let go, and repeat instead: "It's all right. Just tell me what you want to do now. Do you want to take a shower? Have some sleep?"

He shakes his head, doesn't relax in the embrace. You let him go. Then you look him in the eyes. But before you can say anything, he is the one to speak again:

"Why aren't you mad?" he asks, and you almost answer: _oh, I am mad_ before you realize he doesn't mean _insane_ but _angry._

"Mad about what?"

"Moriarty was mad," he goes on, and you want to say _yeah, no kidding?_ You slap yourself mentally.

"Mad about what?"

"That I couldn't make up my mind. That I wouldn't chose a way of life."

"But you did, Sherlock."

He shakes his head. You don't know what to do. Hugging him doesn't help; kissing him certainly won't help. What did you need when you came back from the war? A friend. More importantly, a change in your life. A thrill.

"Sherlock?" He looks at you again, and as you meet his eyes, you know you will do anything, anything at all, to make him feel better. "Do you want to go somewhere?"

"Somewhere?" he asks, bewildered.

You nod. "Yes. Anywhere. Leave London. Countryside, maybe?"

He stares at you, dumbstruck, then blinks. "Why would I want to do that?"

You shrug, feeling stupid. "I don't know. It's just, if you didn't feel like staying in London, we could've–"

"We?"

Your breath is caught in your throat again. But despite the fear, it is with a calmness that surprises even you that you ask, sternly:

"Do you want me out of the picture too, Sherlock?"

You stare, waiting for his answer. Something breaks in his eyes. Wordlessly, he shakes his head. You start breathing again.

"Then please, let's deal with this together."

"Deal with what?" he asks shakily.

You do not answer. You know he knows. Slowly, very gently, you pull him towards the corridor.

"Let's see your room, shall we? I've got to warn you, there's a crib in there. But it won't stay, don't worry."

"I'm the one who shouldn't be staying."

"No," you retort, your tone final. "This is your room. This is your flat. And unless you want me out–"

"I don't want you out!"

You stop walking and turn to him. "Then what do you want?"

He shakes his head helplessly. "I want..." He swallows. "I want you to live. Happily. With your family. I want you to live the life you've chosen."

You squeeze his arm a little and wait until he looks at you again. You lock eyes with him.

"Then let me live the life I choose."

* * *

><p><em>Just to occupy one minute of your day.<br>Just to sleep underneath your bed._

_Just to stay..._

* * *

><p>The moment you open the door to Sherlock's room, you remember the shirt. <em>The<em> shirt. The one under the pillow.

"Hum, let me clean up a bit, won't you? Just a second."

In a flash you close the door in his face, swoop down on the bed, take the shirt out, push the crib into the corner, open the door.

"Let me change the bed sheets for you."

"It's fine," Sherlock says.

Five seconds. You lost sight of him for five seconds and your heart is already hammering, panic almost choking you. This is ridiculous.

"They need to be changed anyway," you insist. "Here, help me."

Making a bed with Sherlock is possibly the strangest thing you've done today. That's something to add to the list of surreal events of the day. Sherlock making tea. Sherlock making a bed. Sherlock being _alive_. Your legs feel weak.

"Are you all right?" he asks, putting a hand on your arm. You shiver at the touch.

"Are you?"

You look at each other for a long moment, standing still.

"You should rest," he murmurs.

You laugh nervously. That's it, your nerves are finally letting you down. You have to put your right hand behind you to hide the trembling which is back. Sherlock is right. You both need to get some sleep, badly. But to sleep you need to close your eyes. To sleep, you need to let go of him, and you can't do that, you can't do that at all, not now...

"You've still got clothes here," you say, playing for time. "Enough for tomorrow, at any rate. And your pyjamas must be somewhere in there..."

Sherlock is standing behind you, waiting quietly. His silence is making you self-conscious. His gaze weighs down on your back and shoulders. How will you be able to sleep? You won't, for sure. "Here. The blue one. Do you want me to try to find your blue gown too?" How will you even be able to leave the room, lose sight of him? "It should be around here." You can't. How? _How?_

"You can stay," Sherlock says.

You freeze, standing like an idiot in front of his wardrobe, holding his pyjamas in one hand, looking for the gown with the other.

"What did you say?" you ask, trying not to sound too shaky, feeling ridiculous. You hide your trembling hand under his pyjamas.

Sherlock looks you in the eye. "You can stay," he repeats.

You swallow.

"Why are you saying this?"

"Because you haven't said what you wanted to say. If you want something, you should just ask."

"Look who's talking," you mumble with embarrassment. Your head is spinning. _You haven't said what you wanted to say. What you wanted to say... _"I'll go get the armchair, then."

He stares. "The armchair?"

You stop at the door, mortified. Did you misunderstand? "Yes, the armchair... if you don't mind? I can sleep on the floor, but–"

"John, this is a double bed. I know you care a lot about what people say, but–"

"No, no, it's just–"

"–but your flat isn't bugged, and I was the only one watching you from across the street."

"That's not what I–"

You stop in mid-sentence, your eyes widening as a clearly exhausted Sherlock starts undressing in front of you, completely oblivious. You flee. "I'll get ready for bed, then."

You don't think you ever put on your pyjamas faster in your entire life. When you knock on the door to his room again, you don't know what you'll do if he doesn't answer. If he's gone.

"Come in."

You start breathing again. This is absurd. You can't get on apnoea mode the moment your eyes aren't fixed on him.

In the room, the light is already switched off and Sherlock is in bed. You can't repress a chuckle. God, you're exhausted.

"What?" he asks somewhat defensively.

"I don't think I ever saw you in a bed."

"You put me in a bed when the woman drugged me."

"Right," you concede as you get into bed next to him, careful not to touch him. "But that's different."

"How?"

You put your head on the pillow delicately, hesitantly, as if the bed and the room and everything could be shattered to figments of your imagination if you moved too abruptly.

"Well, I never saw you actually tired and needing to sleep."

"I'm not tired," he argues.

You smile fondly. "Then what are you doing in bed?"

"Indulging you."

Your eyes widen. God, will this man never let you breathe? "What?"

Sherlock clicks his tongue. Is he... annoyed? "You won't sleep if I don't sleep. Now. Close you eyes."

You swallow, but comply. The last thing you see is his face.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six. You open your eyes.

Sherlock is staring right back at you. You blush and close them back at once.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five. You open one eye.

Sherlock is still staring at you. He sighs. You fumble.

"I'm sorry, I'll–"

"Here," he says.

You stare, dazed, at the open hand he's put on the mattress between you.

"Come on, take it." His voice is tinged with impatience; regardless of what he claims, you know he too is exhausted.

Feeling like the nightmare of the day has turned into a dream, you put your hand on his, clumsily. His hand is cold. For some reason, it is this that makes you break down.

"Oh God," you murmur, as if realizing only now what is happening. You squeeze his hand in yours, desperately, elatedly. Sherlock is alive. _Alive_. You curl up close to your joined hands, pressing your brow against them with a fervour you did not think yourself capable of. You must be hurting him, squeezing so tightly.

But if he can get hurt it means you're really touching him.

If he can get hurt, it means he is alive.

"Thank you," you murmur, unable to hide the tremor in your voice. "Thank you."

Sherlock does not answer, nor does he ask _thank you for what?_

But tentatively, almost imperceptibly, he squeezes back.

* * *

><p><em>...<em>_ in the corner of you heart. _

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	49. Abusus non tollit usum

**A/N: Thank you to all of you who posted reviews as guests and whom I may not thank via PM. **

****Reviewers are loved :)****

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:**_"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

_**Abusus non tollit usum:** "abuse does not remove use", i.e. abuse does not preclude proper use. _

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XLVIII : <strong>_Abusus non tollit usum_

_Giving up, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>What if we stop having a ball? <em>

_What if the paint chips from the wall? _

_What if there's always cups in the sink? _

_What if I'm not what you think I am?_

* * *

><p>"Let me change the bed sheets for you."<p>

Sherlock looks around the room. _What am I doing here?_

"It's fine," he says, thinking that answering John might be the right thing to do.

John.

Sherlock watches him glancing around, obviously worried that he forgot something crucial, something that will reveal everything he tried to hide as he "cleaned up a bit". The crib pushed into the corner only stands out more that way; the sheets and blanket in it are uneven and indicate that John probably hid something under. Sherlock's eyes shift to the bed. Sheet slightly rumpled near the pillow; pillowcase creased on the ride side. "_John is still sleeping with one of your shirts, you know."_

"They need to be changed anyway," John goes on. "Here, help me." "_I wonder what he does with it at night... He must really be needy if he has recourse to such methods to get off."_

Sherlock represses a snort. Just look at what methods _you_ had recourse to in order to get off, he counters back to Seb, mentally. Well, of course mentally. Sebastian Moran is dead. Addressing him in his mind is bad enough, Sherlock certainly isn't going to say that out loud. _What am I thinking? Just what am I doing here? _He glances at John and knows.

"Are you all right?" he inquires, putting a hand on his arm. John's body shivers under his hand.

"Are you?"

Their eyes lock while their bodies stand, unmoving. Yes, of course. Such a stupid question. Does John's face mirror his own? Sherlock wonders. Does he too look that wrecked?

"You should rest," he murmurs. His responsibility in this is unquestionable. He remembers the doctor's face as he observed him and his wife and his son from across the street. He looked tired and wounded, but also content and sometimes even happy.

John laughs nervously. And isn't Sherlock responsible for that too? He didn't manage this well. He should never have let John see him. He's only making things worse for him.

_Worse? How? _How worse could he make it? Well. He could bring down to pieces everything John built in his absence. And then what? Could he make it better? There was no telling that.

John brings his right hand in his back again. His _trembling_ right hand. Sherlock's face darkens.

No. Who is he to make John better, when he's the one who broke him in the first place?

_That is not the right question, though_, some still functioning part of his brain tells him. _Find the right question._

But Sherlock is tired of questions. Problems. Riddles. He's had enough. John is not a mystery. He can still read him like an open book.

"You've still got clothes here," John says, but he could be saying anything, really, anything that would fill the conversation, allow him to remain longer in the room. "Enough for tomorrow, at any rate. And your pyjamas must be somewhere in there..."

Sherlock can see the panic rising in his every gesture, how the nape of his neck stiffens gradually, how feverishly his fingers rummage through the clothes. "Here. The blue one. Do you want me to try to find your blue gown too?" The blue gown? So he kept that as well?

John, John... Always forgot the most important thing. Never saw the obvious.

What's the point of hiding one shirt if you show that you've kept perfectly preserved all the rest of the wardrobe?

"It should be around here."

_And even that you've remembered how it was arranged? _

"You can stay," Sherlock says before he can think twice about it. The words actually surprise him. Stay? Why is _he_ even staying?

John freezes. Sherlock cannot decide whether he looks ridiculous or pathetic, standing there petrified, hiding his trembling hand under the pyjamas. _Sherlock's_ pyjamas.

An unexpected wave of warmth punches him right in the gut.

He realizes that there is so much to hide in this flat that John can only hide things under other things that he should be hiding too. Seeing somebody's flat is like opening the person up and seeing what is inside; it is a key to reading the individual more thoroughly. And watching said person in his flat? Even better.

The fact that John first took the Royal Medical Corps mug and not the one with the horrible distorted canary.

The way he automatically led Sherlock to what was his old room and "cleaned up" instead of making him sleep in the room upstairs, unused, or on the sofa.

Everything he did, everything he said.

John was not an open book. He was a book thrown in Sherlock's face. He just couldn't avoid noticing.

"What did you say?" John asks shakily.

Sherlock looks at him. He could answer "Nothing. What were you saying?" or "Nothing, never mind the gown, I'll just put that on and get into bed" or even "Nothing, in fact I have no idea why I'm still here, I have to go now".

Instead he says: "You can stay."

Again.

But can he? Can _he_ stay?

John is wrong, this is no longer his room. It smells different. It looks different. There is still his old smell and John's and another that can only be a woman's and then even more disturbing what is probably the smell of the little pink thing. Sherlock has half a mind to suggest they sleep in the other room. _They?_

"Why are you saying this?" John's voice breaks in, uneasy.

"Because you haven't said what you wanted to say." Of course it's not very fair, because he hasn't either. "If you want something, you should just ask," he adds, to justify himself. Because he doesn't know what he wants. Does he?

"Look who's talking," John mumbles. His embarrassment is obvious. So is his confusion. He is torn between past and present and he doesn't dare look at the future but still he is doing it and it terrifies him. Idiot. As if he could deal with that _now_. "I'll go get the armchair, then."

This snaps Sherlock out of his thoughts. "The armchair?" Dear God, John's state is even more alarming than he thought. There he is, standing by the door, looking back at Sherlock with mortification. "Yes, the armchair... if you don't mind? I can sleep on the floor, but–"

"John, this is a double bed," Sherlock cuts in. John is trying to hide his trembling hand again and Sherlock tries not to frown. "I know you care a lot about what people say, but–"

"No, no, it's just–"

"–but your flat isn't bugged, and I was the only one watching you from across the street," Sherlock finishes. Then he stops listening and begins to undress because he knows that if the conversation goes on he will snap. Stupid John with his stupid trembling hand and his stupid open face and open heart and he doesn't even know why he's still here, why he's letting John sleep in this room, why _he_ is even sleeping in this room, why he's sleeping at all when he could be on a plane to China...

"That's not what I–"

...or hiding peacefully across the street or in a hotel where he would make sure Mycroft would not bother him, or anywhere, really, because anywhere would be better than _here_, in this room where John must have slept alone and with his wife and with his wife and son and this is stupid because Sherlock has no right to feel possessive of a room and of this one in particular but he feels distinctly _dispossessed _and... "I'll get ready for bed, then," John says before fleeing the room.

Fleeing. Yes. That's an idea. Sherlock's eyes fall on the window. The Woman came in that way once. Or left that way at any rate. Both, probably. But he's already undressed and John will be back any second.

He looks away and turns the light off. Something clenches in his chest. John's distress and evident terror that he should disappear again makes him feel ashamed of himself. _You want to 'protect John's happiness' or something of the like, don't you? _Not for what he did now nearly three years ago, but for his line of reasoning since then. _Greg Lestrade, Martha Hudson... You think they've grieved you enough. That now they've moved on and your role is only to ensure that they live their life safely and as happily as possible. _It had been faulty. _You believe what John wrote on his blog! _It had been a way to protect himself and he had known it, but deep down he had truly believed that this was what was best for John. _You believe it, don't you? That you're not safe. _He had made himself believe it. _That if you are with them, you will jeopardize their safety. _And because there was some truth to it, it had been all the easier.

Feeling sick, Sherlock gets under the sheets and duvet just in time before John knocks on the door. In his own flat. He knocks on the door to his own bedroom. Sherlock rests his head on the pillow. It smells like John's shampoo. So he still uses the same.

"Come in."

But it's strange because he showers in the morning. Why would his pillow smell like his shampoo? Oh. Of course. Nightmares. Sweat. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. When John opens the door the light from the corridor comes in sharply – a yellow triangle cutting into the darkness. Then he turns the light off and closes the door behind him. And this sound... Sherlock blinks. John is chuckling.

"What?" he asks.

"I don't think I ever saw you in a bed."

"You put me in a bed when the woman drugged me," he points out.

"Right." As John gets into bed next to him, Sherlock notices that he deliberately avoids touching him in any way. It makes him feel self-conscious. _What am I doing here? _"But that's different."

"How?" How did this even happen? Admittedly, he had no choice. But...

The way John lies down and puts his head on the pillow carefully, as if it was made of glass, is, without exaggeration, heartbreaking. That is, when you have a heart, naturally. _But we both know that's not quite–_

"Well, I never saw you actually tired and needing to sleep." His tentativeness is painful to watch.

"I'm not tired." His attempts at doing what must be done when so much should be done for _him_ instead, admirable and foolish. Or brave, to put it nicely.

"Then what are you doing in bed?" he asks. His tone makes Sherlock shiver. It is fond.

"Indulging you."

John's eyes turn into saucers. As if he wasn't obvious enough. "What?"

Sherlock clicks his tongue. They have to sleep. If they keep talking he'll get annoyed. Now that wouldn't do. "You won't sleep if I don't sleep. Now. Close you eyes."

John swallows but, not surprisingly, complies. Sherlock watches him and waits. Let's bet. Seven or eight?

One. (probably seven)

Two. (no, even less)

Three. (five or six)

Four. (yes, six)

Five.

Six.

John opens his eyes. Sherlock simply stares back, trying not to give him _a look_. Any kind of look. He remembers John never seemed to appreciate. _The look_.

The way John blushes and closes his eyes back at once like a child is of course not painful. Not endearing. Not making Sherlock want to do something for him without knowing what. No, not at all.

One. (he won't last that long this time)

Two. (probably four or five)

Three. (but he's proud – five)

Four.

Five.

John opens his eyes.

Sherlock sighs.

"I'm sorry, I'll–" John fumbles.

"Here," Sherlock cuts in, putting his hand between them, his palm open, waiting for John's. John, of course, finds nothing better to do than to stare at the hand instead of reaching for it. "Come on, take it."

OK, maybe that was a bit too harsh a tone. Sherlock considers repeating it more gently, but John is already putting his hand on his. It is awkward. Neither of them is good at this. But his hand is warm. Painfully warm against Sherlock's cold skin.

"Oh God," John murmurs, and then Sherlock knows he's finally realized. Not come to terms with it, no, not so soon. But the reality of this has just hit him. He squeezes Sherlock's hand in his fervently, and for a second Sherlock fears he'll do more. But he only curls up against their joined hands and presses his brow against them. His hand is no longer trembling. In a fleeting moment of madness Sherlock muses that if this is what makes the trembling stop, he wouldn't mind keeping John's hand there indefinitely.

"Thank you," John murmurs, a tremor in his voice. Sherlock wonders what he could do in order to stop _that_ trembling. "Thank you."

He does not answer. He doesn't know what to say, what to do. Google isn't an option this time; he wouldn't even know what to type. Words fail him. He is so lost in this place where he never intended to return, touching a man he never thought he would touch again, that he almost switches on to automatic-answer mode. But even then he wouldn't know what to answer. My be because there is nothing to answer to that.

_What about John? What do you think a good life would be for him?_

John. Seb. Moriarty. Mycroft. Everything is terribly jumbled. It feels like he ended up here through some kind of accident. Like when you're driving and you know where you're going and suddenly a truck hits you and all you can do is hold on to the wheel for dear life.

Sherlock doesn't have any wheel to hold on to. But since John's hand is in his and he doesn't know what to do with it, tentatively, he squeezes back.

It takes John almost an hour to relax. Once in a while, he still opens his eyes and glances at Sherlock, who keeps his half-closed. Waiting. Until the hand in his relaxes. Until John's fingers uncurl and his grip slackens. And then only the warmth remains.

Sherlock shifts in the bed. The smell of the room is different and it bothers him. He can't keep his mind off it. Can't fall asleep. How could he?

The flat is changed. John is changed.

Is he?

His breathing becomes regular. His chest rises rhythmically, in accordance with the beats in his chest. It is so loud. Filling the room. Sherlock can't hear anything else. It bothers him. As if John's heart was hammering in his ears. It is a haunting beat. It reaches their joined hands; resonates in Sherlock's head. It feels so heavy. Almost unbearable.

Almost.

_Sherlock, let's go home. Let's go back to 221B_.

And he followed. Why?

That hadn't been part of the plan. Never. Or had it? What plan? Whose?

The Woman had been here, Sherlock could tell from the note Mrs. Watson left. She'd chased the wife away. And just for that, Sherlock wouldn't go and meet her at the airport. He wouldn't leave with her. He's had enough of people meddling with his life.

__How do yo intend to live from now on, Sherlock?__

He shifts in the bed uncomfortably, trying not to wake up John. He must have been exhausted. Still. Being able to sleep in such circumstances. A small smile graces Sherlock's lips. John. Ever the soldier.

__From what I grasped, you didn't intend to come back. You didn't intend to tell me you weren't... dead. So what was it you wanted to do? What was your answer to the final problem?__

If the Woman came here, then it means the wife knows. Will his being alive change something?

__Do you want me out of the flat?__

From what he observed from the window across the street, Mrs. Watson isn't a woman in search of a partner – even a more satisfying one than John.

__Why did you run?__

As if that was possible. Does she even realize how different John is with her, if you think about all the ex-girlfriends?

__Do you want me out of the picture, Sherlock?__

He actually cares. He cares about her.

__What's your answer to the final problem?__

Sherlock blinks. His eyelids are heavy. Soon he sees nothing. Nothing but a white page. A blank letter. He drowns into it.

* * *

><p><em>What if I fall further than you? <em>

_What if you dream of somebody new? _

_What if I never let you win, chase you with a rolling pin? _

_Well what if I do?_

* * *

><p>"Leave a note when?"<p>

The flat is dark. There is a note on the table.

"This is your flat. Mycroft said you bought it from Mrs. Hudson, left it to me on your will or something... I'm not paying any rent."

_Mycroft is._ Well. John doesn't need to know that.

"Don't weep, my dear, see where it leads. Oops! I forgot! You're not the one left weeping, you are DEAD! :D"

A smiley face. Spinning.

"Hello, my dear. Have you missed me?"

A grin in the darkness.

"Tut tut, that won't do at all! Have you forgotten already? I'M DEAD TOO!"

A torture room.

"_He's_ not dead, you see. So we can have some fun."

John.

"NO!"

The skull. Weeping. Crying blood. Mouth open and screaming. Death throes. Skin glowing in the moonlight.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

Yellow flowers. Nothing to do with it.

"He's smitten with you, y'know. He'll want more than just your regal presence in the room."

"I cannot get Nix Nought Nothing to speak to me for all that I can do!"

A graveyard in the Czech Republic.

"Thought it'd be fun to play the 'Who's who?' game. That's not very hard, is it? The king who sold his own son to the giant, and the giant playing games with the little prince... The daughter is a harder one. Here's a hint: who cried and cried and cried saying 'Waken, waken, and speak to me!'? Uhm? Perhaps someone who could now say 'Nothing happened to me'.

Now tell me, Sherlock... will nothing come in the end?"

An opera in Barcelona.

"People want to know you're human."

A monument at dawn in Washington DC.

"Who are you?"

I don't know. No idea.

"How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"

A swimming-pool. A newspaper clip from the 1980s.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

_So there was a whole lot of sillies bigger than them three sillies at home. So the gentleman turned back home again and married the farmer's daughter, and if they didn't live happy for ever after, that's nothing to do with you or me._

_"It really hasn't, has it, Sexy? :) Since it won't happen. It's not for us. But don't worry: you'll find enough sillies out there to occupy yourself, and there'll probably be a nice little sillies' wedding at 'home', don't you think? Only without you. Cheers. :)"_

A text. **_I'm delighted. By the way, have you heard of John's wedding?_ **

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both."

_But the master remembered on his journey that he had not locked his book, and therefore returned, and at the moment when the water was bubbling about the pupil's chin, rushed into the room and spoke the words which cast Beelzebub back into his fiery home._

The kitchen in 221B.

"I should really go."

"Where?"

Where, indeed?

A hotel room.

"China? What in the world would you want to do in China? And I don't speak Chinese, by the way."

"Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."

"We don't know a thing about each other."

"–John is still sleeping with one of your shirts."

"Shut up, just shut up, Seb."

"I haven't been to war, John."

"Yes you have. Sit down. Please."

_All the birds of the air came to the magpie and asked her to teach them how to build nests. For the magpie is the cleverest bird of all at building nests._

"Let's go home, Sherlock."

_Meanwhile Madge Magpie went on working and working without looking up till the only bird that remained was the turtle-dove, and that hadn't paid any attention all along, but only kept on saying its silly cry "Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."_

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world."

"Haven't pulled rank in ages."

"Enjoy it?"

"Oh yeah."

_At last the magpie heard this just as she was putting a twig across. So she said: "One's enough."_

_But the turtle-dove kept on saying: "Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."_

"I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."

"What's the point in being clever if you can't prove it?"

"You want me to tell you what you already know?"

_Then the magpie got angry and said: "One's enough I tell you."_

"No; I want you to prove that you know it."

"I know you're for real."

**_One's enough, I tell you!_**

"You didn't take anything because you don't need to."

"You'll never need to take anything ever again." _Because you're going to die._

"Because nothing ... nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

The key. What did you think it was? People, Sherlock. People.

"Consulting criminal."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

You made them hate you, when I made them love me.

"Brilliant, isn't it?"

"Fantastic!"

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

Nothing can protect you from them now.

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

Not even your soldier.

"No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."

"I did."

A satisfied smirk.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

The thrill.

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"That was... amazing."

Eyes shedding light.

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, OK, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock!"

"I'm not his date."

"They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."

"Not his date."

Semtex.

"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

"Daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play."

The game.

"You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good."

"So take this as a friendly warning... my dear. Back off."

Excitement.

"Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

Fear.

"Although I have loved this, this little game of ours."

"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."

A knowing smile.

"And I said 'dangerous' and here you are."

"Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

"OK. At Buckingham Palace, fine."

Laughter.

"People have died."

Pink.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

"That's what people DO!"

The catch-me-if-you-can type.

"I will stop you."

"No, you won't."

Challenge.

"Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one."

The other type of fan.

"Why are you doing all of this? What is it all for?"

"I want to solve the problem – our problem; the final problem. It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. But don't be scared."

Because I know you are. You're weak, now. You've got something to lose.

"Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination."

I'll bring you hell on a platter.

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

Silence in a club on Pall Mall.

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

"I've disappointed you."

"That's good, that's a good deduction, yeah."

Shame. Anger.

"Are you all right?"

"You can talk, Johnny boy."

Resentment.

"Never liked riddles."

"Learn to."

A a curved apple.

"Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ... owe ... you."

_Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o._

"I hope you'll be very happy together."

_One's enough, I tell you!_

"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

Rooftop. About to fly. Hand reaching.

"Goodbye, John."

Flying.

"SHERLOCK!"

"No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you!"

Joined hands.

"Oh God. Thank you. Thank you."

A brow pressed against them.

"If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."

_ONCE on a time and twice on a time, and all times together as ever I heard tell of, there was a tiny lassie who would weep all day to have the stars in the sky to play with; she wouldn't have this, and she wouldn't have that, but it was always the stars she would have. So one fine day off she went to find them._

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

_So she clomb and she clomb and she clomb, but ne'er a step higher did she get: the light was before her and around her, and the water behind her, and the more she struggled the more she was forced down into the dark and the cold, and the more she clomb the deeper she fell._

_But she clomb and she clomb, till she got dizzy in the light and shivered with the cold, and dazed with the fear; but still she clomb, till at last, quite amazed and silly-like, she let clean go, and sank down - down - down._

"Sorry, what?"

"There are LIVES at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives! Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope."

_And bang she came on to the hard boards, and found herself sitting, weeping and wailing, by the bedside at home all alone._

"But don't you worry, my dear, you're not home. Or are you? :D"

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"But we both know that's not quite true."

"Bet you never saw this coming."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

"Please would you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call it's, uh... It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"No. Don't..."

"SHERLOCK!"

A fall.

Blackness.

Breathlessness.

A voice.

"What were we doing there?"

"Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point."

"What point?"

"You."

Sherlock's eyes snap open. He sees the ceiling of a room. Somebody is panting. Him.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice. Why can he hear John's voice? He's awake. He's quite sure he's awake.

"Are you all right?"

All right? Sherlock blinks. Just passing passing the time. And proving a point.

"Did you scream my name?" he asks. What point?

Silence.

You.

Sherlock feels John's hand in his and remembers. He is awake. This isn't a dream.

"I... might have."

"What?"

John shifts uneasily. "Screamed your name."

"Oh."

Silence.

Sherlock wonders if what he's about to say will break the awkwardness or make it worse.

"Well. I could have dreamed it too."

He hears John's breath catch in his throat. Then he feels John's thumb rubbing the back of his hand and it's his turn to miss a beat. He shivers.

"John, I–"

"Shh. Fall back to sleep. Yeah?"

No, Sherlock thinks. This is far more... relaxing, somehow. He doesn't rest while sleeping. Quite the contrary. This... feels comfortable, yes... And yet...

Sleep takes its toll on him before he can finish that thought.

* * *

><p><em>I am giving up on making passes and <em>

_I am giving up on half empty glasses and _

_I am giving up on greener grasses _

_I am giving up_

* * *

><p>Sherlock awakes to morning light and the sleeping form of John beside him.<p>

Breathing peacefully. Regularly.

John probably hasn't slept so well in months, he muses. In years. Maybe Sherlock was wrong. This had nothing to do with John being a soldier. Such serenity on his features did not betray nerves of steel, but something more. Something...

John opens his eyes. Blinks. Sherlock blinks back, and feels stupid about it. _What am I doing here?_

Sherlock knows the exact moment he comes into focus for John because the doctor's face freezes. His eyes widen. He looks at their joined hands, then at Sherlock, at their joined hands, then at Sherlock again. And then, he stares.

For a moment Sherlock lies petrified by the intensity of this gaze on him. Then he fears whatever this might lead to – note to self, check on Google how to deal with a crying friend – and sits up abruptly, letting go of John's hand.

"You didn't clean up the broken mug on the kitchen floor last night," he says quickly.

OK. This probably sounded harsher than he meant it. Or a bit pathetic. How had he meant it? Had he meant anything?

John smiles and stretches before rubbing his eyes. So people really do that. Rub their eyes upon waking. Sherlock blinks, then looks away.

"Hum. I'll. Yes. I should take a shower."

John seems to consider this for a moment, then apparently remembers that there are no windows in the bathroom. He nods, still with some hesitation. Sherlock notices that something has changed on his face. He can't put his finger on it.

"I'll take care of the mug, then," he says.

"Have some breakfast," Sherlock replies, standing up and walking to the door. Then he stops. "Hum, John?"

"Yes?"

"I need a towel. And... clothes." He tries not to look at the crib as he says it.

The hot water pouring on his body makes him aware of how cold he was. Except his hand. His hand is still warm. What is it with John's face? Maybe he just looked relaxed in the morning. After a good rest. Or perhaps it was the light in the room. That's it, the light. John's face was luminous, something like elation woven in his features.

When he comes out of the shower, Sherlock finds, unsurprisingly, that John has prepared breakfast for two.

"You are eating," he declares before Sherlock can say anything.

"I'm not hun–"

Then he meets John's gaze and sits down with a groan.

"Fine. But I don't want the mug with the horrible canary."

"It's a chick."

"It's a cartoon."

"Yeah, but it's a cartoon chick."

"How can you tell it's a chick? Look at it!"

Their eyes lock inadvertently, and John breaks into laughter. Sherlock feels warmth rush to his cheeks and casts his gaze down. It feels so strange. Being here. It does not feel like reality.

A shiver runs down his spine.

"Sherlock?"

Worry. There's worry in his voice. Sherlock stands up nervously.

"I'll just make some coffee. Will you drink some?"

"I already made coffee. Hey. Calm down." John puts his hand on Sherlock's. Sherlock starts.

"I'm calm."

"Yes. Of course you are. Just sit down?"

Here it is again. The rubbing. Thumb against back of the hand. What is it with this silly gesture?

"Just sit back down. I'll serve you."

The taste of John's coffee brings so many memories back, no, an entire world, time past, like in that French book where the guy eats a piece of cake and just remembers his whole childhood, that Sherlock almost chokes on the first sip. John gives him an anxious look.

"Is it too hot?"

Sherlock shakes his head. His throat is tight.

They drink in silence for a while.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Let's switch side next time."

John tilts his head to the side. "What?"

"In the bed. Let's switch side."

Again, John's eyes widen. Aren't they big enough as they are? No. that's because he looks tired. Because of the bags under his eyes. Shining.

...shining?

"No no no, don't do that!" Sherlock exclaims, starting to panic. John blinks and looks away, getting up to make more toast.

"Do what?"

"I haven't googled it yet."

John, still showing only his back to Sherlock, chuckles. He rests his hands on the counter. Sherlock stares at him anxiously, giving him some time, hoping he's not going to cry or do something sentimental. But this is John. He's not _really_ sentimental, is he?

"We should tell Mrs. Hudson," John finally says, his voice even, with even a smile in it.

Sherlock lets out a relieved sigh.

"Mycroft probably called her already."

John frowns.

"You have to go down and see her, Sherlock. Say hello. Explain."

"I can't explain everything all over again!"

"You don't need to explain everything."

John turns and looks him in the eye. Sherlock swallows.

"John, I–"

The words die in his throat. He swallows again. His heart rate is accelerating.

John comes back to the table and sits across from him again. Looking at him. Waiting.

"What if I can never give you what you want?" Sherlock croaks. What is he saying? This isn't what he wanted to say. This has nothing to do with what he wanted to say. He glances around helplessly, feeling trapped.

"Are you sure you really know what I want, Sherlock?" John asks gently.

How can he be gentle about this?

"I killed people."

"Me too." Then, as an afterthought: "More than you."

"I tortured the cabbie to get Moriarty's name."

To this John doesn't answer immediately. "What are you trying to say?" he finally asks.

"I... Why... Why do you... Me..."

Damn this. Stupid words and stupid voice and stupid throat. Sherlock looks away in shame and frustration.

"Why do I what?" John presses on.

Sherlock shakes his head. He drinks some tea, until he finds his voice again. Gets a grip.

"I need to get back to the flat – I mean, the other one, the one across the street. Get my suitcase."

John takes a deep breath. "OK, we've got to talk about this. You've got to tell me, Sherlock."

"Tell you what?"

"Where do you want to go?"

Sherlock looks down at the mug in his hand.

"You kept the mug I used."

"Sherlock..." There is reproach in his voice. A plea, too. Sherlock sighs.

"What do you want me to tell you, John? I–"

"Do you want to live in London?"

"Where else would I live?"

"I don't know, anywhere you want."

Sherlock swallows.

"Do you want me out of London?"

"What? No! Don't be stupid. I..." Now it is John who looks like he's been caught in a trap. He clenches his teeth, casts his gaze down, clenches his fist. There is so much tension in his attitude that his body seems to radiate it. Tension. Determination. But also, fear. "I'm staying with you. I'm sorry. Kicking me out isn't an option."

Sherlock frowns. "You said it was, yesterday." He instantly regrets his words, seeing how ashamed they seem to make John. "Listen, John, I... You don't have to go anywhere."

They look at each other for a while, wordless. Then John sighs.

"Fine. Well. That's a start. We'll go get your stuff then. But before that I want you to go down and talk to Mrs. Hudson."

"You're not coming down with me?" Sherlock asks, and his tone must not have been the right one, for John looks wounded. Sherlock clicks his tongue with as much despair as annoyance. Then he notices that the trembling is back in John's hand and the annoyance vanishes. Guilt hits him so hard he acts without thinking and grabs John's hand instantly. "I didn't mean it like that."

John seems stupefied by the gesture, and just stands there gaping for a second before fumbling: "I know. It's fine."

He still walks Sherlock to the door.

When Mrs. Hudson opens it, her face is pale. Red, puffed eyes. Stupid Mycroft. Couldn't he have waited for the morning before telling her, instead of causing her a sleepless night? A small part of Sherlock's mind knows Mycroft couldn't have known whether they'd meet the landlady upon coming back, and that would have been a terrible shock for her. But still.

"Oh, Sherlock..."

The next moment she is hugging him, sobbing on his shoulder, and he is so lost he even forgets to stiffen.

"Mycroft called me. Said you might need some time to re-adapt. Didn't want to disturb you. Oh, thank goodness, you're alive..."

And more sobs. Sherlock hears the steps creak behind him and knows John has gone back up. To let them have some privacy. Or to have some himself.

"Won't you come in for a minute, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asks, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. Sherlock glances up the stairs nervously.

"I really shouldn't be too long, John–"

"It's about him."

Sherlock follows her in without further protest.

"Mycroft had something delivered for you," she says, still wiping the tears off her face with a handkerchief. Sherlock frowns as she hands a bag to him. DVDs?

"There's a TV in the room. And headphones. He said you should watch them alone. In private."

"I really don't have time for this," he replies curtly, putting the bag down and turning to leave. She puts a hand on his arm.

"Take it."

Her voice, more than her gesture, stops Sherlock dead in his tracks, and compel, him to comply. He swallows.

"But John..."

"I'll go up and have a little chat with him."

"He'll think I'll leave."

"Then I'll bring him back down and have a chat with him here. And leave the door to the bedroom half-open."

Sherlock cannot repress a small smile.

"You haven't changed, Mrs. Hudson."

"You neither."

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, but she's already turned away to go get John. "Just put on the headphones and don't close the door!"

* * *

><p><em>What if our baby comes home after nine? <em>

_What it your eyes close before mine? _

_What if you lose yourself sometimes?_

* * *

><p>Three DVDs. <em><em>Three bullets; three gunmen.<em>_ Three scenes_. ___Three victims. __The first without image. Just a dialogue on a black screen.

"Sherlock wasn't easy to live with."

"Have you come to tell me that? You must be joking."

"It must have been difficult sometimes. Hellish even. You probably found him quite insufferable."

"What?"

"Especially when he tried to completely stop smoking and refrained from using patches."

"Mycroft. What are you trying to say?"

"Would you have cared for him even if he had been broken?"

"Broken? What do you mean broken?"

"I don't know. Like you had been after the war. Or perhaps like he would have been had he still been a drug addict."

"I don't understand."

Oh, but Sherlock understands. And John must understand now, too. He curses Mycroft under his breath.

"Would you have stayed by his side if he had been too much of a mess to provide you with the excitement you craved?"

"Don't tell me you cannot deduce that. Have your skills become rusty?"

"I want to hear you say it."

"Why does it matter? He's dead."

Sherlock swallows with some difficulty, feeling something clench inside him.

"Yes. But had he been alive when you met Mary Morstan, had he been alive and only a burden, would you have stayed with him?"

"Mycroft."

There is warning in John's voice. Anger.

"If he had been charged with the murder of Jim Moriarty and every other deed the consulting criminal managed to blame on him, would you have stood up for him and remained on his side until the end?"

"What do you think, Mycroft?"

"Say it."

"Of course I would have! You know I would have."

Sherlock's hand clenches on the bed. He hears Mrs . Hudson come back into her flat with John.

"And what if he had been the murderer once?"

"He would never have."

"But what if he had?"

"He would _never_ have."

Oh, John...

"You think he couldn't have killed someone?"

Damn you, Mycroft.

"That's not what I said."

"Oh?"

"He wouldn't have been a murderer. Perhaps he could have killed. No, he probably could have. Self-defence. Something like that."

Kind, faithful John... Making him into a hero again.

"He could have sacrificed lives."

"No, he would have considered it to be a failure. He liked to win."

"What if winning made some sacrifices necessary? Such as killing or letting people die?"

Sherlock feels a shiver run down his spine. If Mycroft was so clear, why didn't John ask him about _that_? He probably didn't think of it.

"Mycroft, what are you trying to tell me? Is there something you want to tell me?"

"No, there is something I want _you_ to tell _me._ You've seen him at his worst. You've seen a side of him that greatly disappointed you. And there are some things you might have guessed. Such as the way he obtained Moriarty's name from the old cabbie."

"Boredom can make him inhuman, if that's what you're hinting at, I know. He isn't a high functioning sociopath, but he does have issues. Did."

Does, Sherlock corrects gloomily. And issues? That's... a bit insulting. But it doesn't even start to cover it.

"Well, if we're done, I'll just–"

"If Sherlock had been bored, terribly bored, or if for any reason he'd been inhuman – if you had met Mary Morstan then, would you have still cared for him?"

Oh, shut up, Mycroft. Why don't you just ask him he would have married me, while you're at it?

"I met Mary in a pub, you know. A pub where Sherlock caught a murderer by hitting on him a few years ago. Does that answer your question?"

Sherlock's eyes widen.

"Only partly."

"Look, Mycroft. I saw Sherlock when he played with Moriarty for the first time. He was excited. He was genuinely _happy_. He didn't give a damn about the victims. He didn't consider himself responsible in any way. He got upset because he lost even though technically he had solved everything. I knew him, as much as someone could. So what are you testing me for now?"

Sherlock swallows, but his throat only tightens more. There is a weight on his chest.

"Do you miss him?"

"God, Mycroft, that's enough."

Yes, it is. That's enough.

"Please. Just answer me."

Sherlock stares at the screen, intensely. His eyes are burning, like lasers.

"... I miss him," John finally lets out, his face calm; accepting. "Every day of my life, I miss him. Every hour, every second. But it won't bring him back. Nor will this awful questioning you're imposing on me. I'm out of here. Goodbye, Mycroft."

Oh, he is going to kill him, Sherlock seethes. He is going to kill Mycroft.

He continues with the next DVD. Another scene. This one, a video, but without dialogue. Without any voice.

At first all Sherlock sees is an unknown, empty room, small and austere, with a table on top of which are two bottles of red wine and one glass. Then a door is opened and closed in the background, and John appears on the screen. He puts his keys on the table and takes off his jacket. Sherlock easily deduces this is the room in which he lived when he moved out of Baker Street.

John leaves the image and for a while all Sherlock can hear in the buzz of a shower. What is this video? He starts to become impatient. There is something unnerving and disturbing about staring at this gloomy room that could be any stranger's for almost fifteen minutes while John showers and puts on his pyjamas and whatnot. Sherlock is surprised when John comes back in the picture wearing jeans and a jumper. His most acceptable one, Sherlock notices. A bluish grey one that goes with his eyes and doesn't make him look like a teddy bear.

John grabs a notepad and a pen on the dresser and sits down at the table. He scribbles something and serves himself a glass of wine. He scribbles, then rips the page and crumples it, before scribbling again. Then ripping and crumpling once more. And again. He repeats the gesture, getting more and more frustrated as he goes on, groaning, and finally throwing the crumpled notes. Then he stares at the notepad for a while. Slowly, methodically, he rips a page and puts it in the middle of the table. Sherlock wonders if he has gone mad, or if he has already drunk a lot before opening that wine bottle. What is he doing?

John stands up and picks all the crumbled balls on the floor, then disappears from the image. Sherlock can hear him do something on the right, but cannot pinpoint what. He comes back into the image and sits down once more, filling himself another glass of wine. He takes his time drinking it. Did John like wine? Sherlock can't remember. Not that it really matters. Does he intend to drink those two bottles all by himself?

It is when John puts down his glass and disappears from the image again that the ominous feeling Sherlock got the moment he saw the room and the two bottles of wine with just one glass waiting on top of the table is confirmed and leaves him with no doubt. When John comes back with boxes of pills, Sherlock is not surprised. But he feels sick nonetheless.

He watches John take the pills one by one, the wine sip by sip, one glass after the other. He watches him refill his glass. Watches him open the second bottle. Watches as his movements slow down. Watches as he struggles to open the third box of pills. Watches as he passes out, a smile on his face.

Sherlock retches.

In the living-room, John and Mrs. Hudson are talking but Sherlock can't make out what they're saying. There is a beat in his ears. Probably that of his own heart. He feels nauseous and his hand tightens on the sheets of the bed he's sitting on. He takes out the DVD and puts in the third and last one.

It begins with an empty room as well, but this one Sherlock recognizes. It's his. In 221B. John bursts in and freezes. Then he wreaks havoc. At first Sherlock thinks he is looking for something and is perhaps in a hurry, what with the way he is turning the room upside down, but gradually he realizes that John is just having a fit of fury and despair and is wreaking havoc for the sake of wreaking havoc. And suddenly he stops. He looks around at the mess, and laughs. Sherlock shivers at the bitterness in it. Slowly, John starts looking around. As he goes through Sherlock's possessions, he stumbles upon a little bag of white power.

Sherlock frowns. That is not his. Definitely not his. His brow clouds, and his hand clenches into a fist on the bed sheet. He really will kill Mycroft for this.

Of course, John doesn't just look at the white powder. He inhales some and ends up sprawled on Sherlock's bed – the very same one they just slept in together last night, and the thought sends another wave of nausea up Sherlock's throat.

As he watches the symptoms, Sherlock soon understands that this is not even cocaine. Probably heroin. John looks very dizzy. The camera must have been hidden on a shelf because Sherlock can actually see John's face as he lies on the bed. He sees him frown before saying:

"You're the one hiding it in your room."

Sherlock swallows. If this is what he thinks it is...

John starts laughing. Sherlock feels like he's been hit by a bucket of cold water. The John is quiet for a while, staring at the wall, looking increasingly relaxed and drowsy. He clenches his fists on the mattress.

"Of course, why didn't I think of that?"

Sherlock shivers, chilled to the bone.

"Oh that, I am," John murmurs. He closes his eyes and seems to give up, relaxing on the mattress. He looks simply groggy for a moment, then quite upset.

" 't's not like you're gonna be needing it any time soon."

Silence.

"Mm."

Silence.

"Hey... won't you keep talking?"

Silence.

"... please..?"

He starts and opens his eyes abruptly. He blinks and brings a hand to his mouth as if he was about to throw up, then looks around. Searching for something. Not finding it. He seems ill.

"You're dead."

Silence. Sherlock feels sick. John takes a deep breath and starts shaking. Closing his eyes, he falls back onto the bed and shivers. Then chokes.

"It's impossible."

Silence.

"Heroin doesn't..."

Silence.

"Oh really? What are you, then, a proper ghost perhaps?"

Silence.

At this point Sherlock seriously considers just stopping the video.

He doesn't.

"Warm," John groans, pressing himself closer to an invisible figure.

Silence. Sherlock is trying very hard not to fill in the blanks. He knows he could. With good reason.

"I certainly don't need you to be so damned perceptive. Won't you be a nice fantasy and shut up now?"

You're the one who just asked me to talk, Sherlock muses, before slapping himself mentally.

"Right, and now I'm telling you to shut up."

He shivers as if John on the screen had just answered him. He should stop this DVD. Take it out, before he sees too much. He knows John is going to keep hearing the voice.

But he can't bring himself to move.

"And why is that? Because even as a bloody delusion you must be insufferable?"

_No,_ Sherlock thinks darkly. _Because you want to hear my voice. _

The John on the screen growls while the one in the living-room is chatting with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock is feeling more and more nauseous by the second.

He pales when he sees how content John looks. How blissfully he slackens on the mattress. He does not speak for a long while. Then, out of the blue:

"Got no money though..."

He sounds rather comatose, but shifts a little restlessly on the bed. Yes. Definitely heroin.

"Don't read my thoughts."

_I'm not_, Sherlock replies mentally to the image on the screen. _You're just being obvious._

"Hmpf."

Well that's eloquent.

"My pulse is so slow. D'you think it's gonna stop?"

No. As far as I know, you're not dead. You're actually speaking in the next room.

John chuckles and then looks about to throw up again.

"Sorry, bit drowsy. Mouth's dry, too."

Well that's not surprising. You just sniffed heroin.

"How very romantic of you."

How could you expect me to say anything romantic?

"Because I want you to?"

...Oh.

"I didn't even have the orgasm."

Sherlock's eyes widen. His hand twitches, moving hesitantly towards the remote control. He should stop this.

"Y'know. The rush."

Well, you didn't inject.

"Why did you have powder? It's stupid if it takes away the initial pleasure."

I never put it there! Mycroft probably did.

God, Sherlock would kill him. What got into his brother?

"The pleasure?"

You were talking about the powder, not the pleasure.

"Why would it be in your room if it wasn't yours?"

Sherlock glances towards the living-room and catches a glimpse of John.

"Right. Whatever."

He should stop this video.

"Ah. Don't feel much."

Oh, but you will.

Sherlock grabs the remote control. But just then the John on the screen shuts his eyes tighter and nuzzles up against thin air.

"Then never make it stop," he murmurs.

Sherlock swallows. The hand holding the remote control feels weak and he puts it back on the bed.

"You're not answering..."

He should press the button.

"What?"

Put an end to it.

John is shivering on the bed, squirming a little.

"And what would you say?"

In the living-room, he's laughing with Mrs. Hudson. A rather broken laugh, Sherlock grasps fleetingly.

"No. Don't. Please don't."

Something like panic flutters in Sherlock's stomach. _No... please... stop this... please... _He feels sick. _No... please... Sherlock..._ He doesn't want to watch any more of this. _Sherlock! AAAAAAAAAAAAH! _But he can't press the button, and drowns into the scene taking place under his eyes.

Breathless, John catches something in the air, his fists clenching on emptiness.

"No, no, no... You said pleasure. Grant me pleasure. Don't give me your smartass reasoning now. I want you, yes, I want you as yourself – but I want you, here, now. Don't you dare leave me."

He gasps, then blinks in surprise. Sherlock observes him more closely, then sees, too. The bulge in his trousers.

"Stop."

That isn't caused by heroin.

"Stop it."

John must have desired... before he even inhaled the powder...

"Shut up!"

Sherlock flinches. When John turns and kisses the void in front of him, Sherlock drops the remote control.

"Quod erat demonstrandum. Thanks, genius."

...Did he just speak Latin?

"Mmh. Think I did."

So John speaks Latin when he's on drugs?

"Oh, shut up and kiss me."

Sherlock tries to look away. Fails.

"More... throat feels dry... lips, too.. chapped... please... water me..."

He wants to shut his eyes but he is just stunned, sitting there, unable to stop the video, unable to look away. John moans and Sherlock doesn't know how to block the sound. John arches his back and tilts his head to the side.

Sherlock tries not to see how he rubs himself against the mattress or where his hands roam. He tries not to hear the sounds he is making. Faster. Louder.

"Sherlock... Sherlock..."

Sherlock's hand clenches on the bed.

"I... I need you... need you..."

Clenches more.

"No! I... Wait, you're... ah!"

More.

"You're... teasing?"

Another wave of nausea. Another scene, overlapping. _No... please... stop this... please... AAAAAAAAAAAH!_

John sighs and groans and starts panting._ Should I make him scream for you again, Sherlock?_

"I... need you..."

_No... please... Sherlock... Sherlock! AAAAAAAAAH!_

"Need you... inside of me. Now."

_Sherlock... Sherlock! Aaah! Please, Sherlock... Sherlock!_

"No!"

On the screen, John clenches his fists and thrusts his hips with elation.

"Don't... say anything... Just... I need you. Now. Please. Please please please please..."

_Oh God... Sherlock, please... please, Sherlock... Sherlock, Sherlock... God, let me live..._

A scream. John's entire body goes into spasm. His scream keeps echoing in Sherlock's head. _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock __**SHERLOCK!**_

Unbearably slowly, John relaxes on the mattress and starts crying. Silently. Softly.

Sherlock retches and takes off the headphones violently before rushing out of the room. He gets to the toilet just in time to empty his stomach in the basin.

* * *

><p><em>Then I'll be the one to find you <em>

_Safe in my heart_

* * *

><p>"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you all right? What did you do?"<p>

Sherlock doesn't answer. He feels dizzy.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson murmurs, bringing a hand to her mouth. John seems furious.

"What did Mycroft give you?"

"I don't know, just DVDs! I didn't watch them. He said only Sherlock should. I couldn't have known..."

"I'm going to kill him," John states, and Sherlock realizes he's serious. "But first I'll see what this is ab–" He grabs his arm before John can turn and go to the bedroom.

"Don't," he croaks, trying to catch his breath. John squats down and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey. You all right? Would you like some water?"

"I'll get you some," Mrs. Hudson says.

Sherlock's grip on John's arm tightens.

"Don't go," he orders.

"I'm not going anywhere," John replies soothingly, rubbing his thumb against Sherlock's palm. Sherlock shivers. He meant _don't go to the room_. But that works. That works too.

"Here, drink some water." Mrs. Hudson hands him a glass. Sherlock drinks, but spits it in the toilet basin a few times before swallowing any water. John's thumb on him is making him dizzy, but he doesn't dare take his hand away.

"Why are you so cold?" John asks quietly, touching his other hand.

"I'm fine."

"Did you take a hot shower this morning?"

"Yes."

Sherlock catches Mrs. Hudson's smile and glares. Yes, John sounds like a mother hen, so what? Mrs. Hudson doesn't seem to get the message. Sherlock gives her a look, and glances pointedly towards the bedroom. The good woman smiles, then turns away.

"Should I make some tea?" she asks, going into the bedroom and not the kitchen.

"I think we'll just go home, but thanks, Mrs. Hudson," John says. He checks Sherlock's face for confirmation. Sherlock nods.

He can still hear John's voice echoing in his head. His screams.

They go back to the flat and Sherlock paces the living-room restlessly. He regrets having thrown his phone out the window. He can't possibly borrow John's to text Mycroft, considering the contents of the message he intends to send.

"Are you still feeling nauseous?" John asks, opening the window. Sherlock shakes his head and falls into the couch. It isn't quite true. But he's got nothing to throw up anymore anyway. John comes to sit next to him. "What did you watch?" he asks softly.

Sherlock remains silent. John's phone vibrates in his pocket.

"Sorry, just a minute. Hello? Oh, Mary. Hey. Yes. Yeah, well..."

Sherlock stands up and walks to the window, unnerved. There is such softness in John's voice.

"No... Look, I... OK. I'll be right there." He glances at Sherlock. "What? You want to come?" Another glance. "Hum, well... Ah, wait!"

John looks at his phone, then groans. "Sorry about that. She probably thought I didn't want to come to her flat."

"Obvious."

John comes to stand next to Sherlock by the window. "I have to tell her about Seb."

"Tell her he was a sniper?"

"No, Sherlock. Tell her he's dead."

They exchange a look.

"Listen, Sherlock, about the body... I want a proper funeral."

Sherlock stares.

"John, that man tried to kill you."

"Yes. But he was my friend, too."

Sherlock snorts and turns away.

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

"Well you call Mycroft about it. I don't have a phone anyway."

"You don't have a phone?"

"Threw it out the window yesterday."

John goggles. A door is slammed downstairs and the steps creak. Sherlock glances at John nervously.

"Should I go to the bedroom?"

"Hum... Kitchen?"

Sherlock complies. A second later the door opens.

"Hey! Slept well?"

"Hey, Mary. Yeah. You?"

Sherlock hears her kiss him. On the cheek, probably. He stands very still, not making a sound.

"Yep. Where's Sherlock?"

At this, John's jaw drops.

"What?"

"Oh, there you are! Hi, I'm Mary. I heard a lot about you. But you already know that."

Sherlock shakes her hand stiffly. John, speechless, looks from her to him, then back.

"What the–"

"Here, can you keep an eye on Blake for a second? I need to talk to John. In private, if you don't mind."

She winks at him as shoves the little pink thing in his arms. Sherlock looks up at John in panic. He doesn't seem very reassured either.

"Hum, Mary, I don't think–"

"Oh, he'll be fine! Just come here."

She takes him by the arm and drags him to the bedroom. Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but then shuts it and looks at the baby in his arms. He blinks. The baby blinks back, then gives him a wide grin.

"Gaaaaaa!"

He laughs. Sherlock just stands, frozen, staring at the little living thing. That's what's so terrifying about it. It's alive.

"Aga?"

"I don't speak baby-talk, sorry."

"Agaaa!"

Sherlock glances at the closed door nervously. How long are they going to take? _They're_ the parents! How irresponsible to leave a child in the hands of a stranger. Well, when he says stranger...

Mrs. Watson wasn't exactly how he expected her to be. But she sure is lively. Too lively. There's a sadness in her eyes which makes Sherlock awkward.

"Why are they taking so long?" he asks out loud. The baby makes some noise in answer. Sherlock swallows.

There is something strange and uncomfortable about holding John's son like this. John's son. Sherlock shifts uneasily from one foot to the other.

"Ga?"

"You don't really look like John. Except the ears, perhaps. Or the nose. But you mother's got a strange nose too." The baby blinks stupidly and Sherlock groans. What is he doing, talking to a baby? That thing is barely human. It's deprived of speech.

"AGAAA!"

"Oh for goodness' sake..."

Thankfully the bedroom door soon opens on Mary and John.

"By the way, did you think of hiding the shirt?" she is saying as she opens the door. John looks appalled. She laughs, but Sherlock can tell that she's been crying. She walks up to him and takes her baby back.

"Hey Blake! Did uncle Sherlock take good care of you?"

"I'm not his uncle."

"She's kidding," John says.

"He looks happy enough," she goes on, grinning at the baby. "Say bye to uncle Sherlock!"

"Not his uncle."

"Sherlock, she's teasing you."

Mary turns to Sherlock and locks eyes with him.

"You'd better take your responsibilities," she tells him gravely. "'Cause we all do, here."

"Mary," John says, frowning slightly. She smiles brightly.

"Well I guess you deserve a few days to adjust. Welcome back!"

She walks back to the door, then stops and turns. "You know, you're exactly like in my dreams. I hope we can talk some more once you've settled in."

And with a wink, she's gone.

Sherlock can tell she'll cry again. Perhaps she already is as she walks down the staircase. He turns to John.

"Is this all right?"

John shakes his head helplessly.

"She was very close to Seb."

"That's not what I meant."

"What do you mean, then?"

John looks genuinely surprised. Sherlock stares. Poor woman.

"Are you sure you want to divorce her?" he asks bluntly.

"What the... Where did that come from?"

"What did she want to talk to you about?"

John glances at Sherlock sideways.

"I'll tell you if you tell me what Mycroft's DVDs were all about."

"Forget it," Sherlock grumbles.

John looks pained, but does not insist.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replies a little curtly, averting his gaze.

That's when his eyes fall on it.

It could not have been there before – definitely not yesterday. Sherlock would have noticed. John must have taken it out when he was at Mrs. Hudson's. And then when they got back he was still nauseous and Mrs. Watson just burst in on them and shoved her baby in his arms and he was distracted. But now he isn't, and his eyes widen as he sees it.

The notebook.

* * *

><p><em>I am giving up on making passes and<em>

_I am giving up on half empty glasses and_

_I am giving up on greener grasses_

_I am giving up for you_

* * *

><p>"Why... Why do you have this?"<p>

"Have what?"

"That notebook."

John freezes, and doesn't seem to know what to say. Obviously he didn't leave it there for Sherlock to see, and didn't plan on explaining to him why in the world he had it.

"I... I thought you were dead," John fumbles.

Sherlock blinks.

"I fail to see how that's linked."

"I mean, I'm sorry I read your diary or whatever you considered it to be, but I–"

"That's not a diary, John, and that's not what I meant. How did it come to be in your possession?"

"Oh. Mycroft gave it to me. Well. Sort of. He gave it to Mrs. Hudson who gave it to Mary who gave it to me."

Sherlock stares. "Just how many people–"

"Oh don't worry, they didn't read it. I mean it's not the most... Nevermind. Look. I thought you were dead. I was trying to hold on to–"

"But Mycroft didn't," Sherlock interrupts darkly.

"What?"

"Mycroft didn't think I was dead. He knew I wasn't."

"Yes, well... I suppose he just... I don't know. You can ask him. I was going to call him anyway."

"Why?"

"Seb's funeral, remember?"

"Oh for God's sake!"

"He was my friend, Sherlock!"

"And wasn't I?!"

"Of course you were! But you're not dead!"

"Oh so would that have been better?"

The words seem to hit John like a punch in the face. He does not answer. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. How did they end up screaming at each other? He takes a step towards John, then steps back. He doesn't know what to do. He feels too much anger to apologize. But he probably should.

"John, I–"

"Do you wish you were dead, Sherlock?"

The question just stuns Sherlock, but John sounds serious. His face is grave. Pained, but serious.

"What? No!" Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, overly irritated with John and with himself. "Of course I don't, John. I'm not _mad."_ _Are you not, my dear?_ Shut up! _You're insane. You're just getting that now?_

"You don't have to be mad."

_Just kill yourself, it's a lot less effort._

The scene on the second DVD comes back full force and replays in Sherlock's mind. He closes his eyes.

"That's not what I..." _Should I make him scream again for you, Sherlock?_ "Shut up!"

Did he just say that out loud? He groans.

"Sherlock..."

"Spare me your pity."

_No, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing... One more miracle, Sherlock, for me._

"Pity? Sherlock what's–"

_Don't ... be ... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this._

"I don't think I can do this," he cuts in.

John's face falls. "Do what?"

"This!" Sherlock gestures vaguely. "You... I can't... I don't know what I am doing here."

_What were we doing there?_

"You have a wife. You have a child. You have a proper job at a clinic."

_Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point._

"You can't live with me anymore. It doesn't make sense. You don't need to live with me anymore."

_What point?_

"There's no point in me staying."

_You._

Sherlock swallows. John simply stares at him for a while.

"You don't believe a word of that," he says calmly, turning to the door. " Now. Shall we go get your suitcase?"

He turns back and Sherlock looks him in the eyes. They are so clear it almost dazzles him. Here it is again. The elation. The confidence. The traces of fear too, sometimes; the panic when it has been more than five seconds since Sherlock was last in his field of vision.

_Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But oops!_

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go."

_You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson._

Sherlock does not manage to return John's smile, but follows him out of the flat.

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><p><em>I am giving up<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

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.

_tbc_


	50. Adhuc sub judice lis est

**A/N: All my thanks to guest reviewers whom I may not thank via PM. It is so very strange to be getting that close to the end of this epic! I never thought it would take me so long to write when I started it now 18 months ago. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! As always, reviewers are loved :)**

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

**Adhuc sub judice lis est : **"the case is still before the judge", i.e. the matter is still undecided and not to be interfered with from the outside.

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is T.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter XLIX: Adhuc sub judice lis est<strong>

_Masochist, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>She says you're a masochist for falling for me,<br>So roll up your sleeves.  
>And I think that I like her, 'cause she tells me things I don't want to hear,<br>Medicinal tongue in my ear._

* * *

><p>"Let's switch side next time."<p>

"What?"

"In the bed. Let's switch side."

The floor gives out and for a second you see a silhouette standing on the other side of a chasm and falling with the earth into the abyss, a man on a roof reaching out to you and hanging up before jumping. Sherlock's words are so unexpected that you feel like your feet don't touch the ground anymore. It isn't a pleasant sensation. It is violent and hits you like a punch in the chest.

"No no no, don't do that!"

Sherlock's voice is edged with panic, which slowly rises in his tone. Your eyes are burning, and you realize you must have been staring at him so intensely you forgot to blink. Quickly, you stand up and turn to make more toast. Your feet against the kitchen floor seem to put the world back into place. Gradually, you start feeling anchored to the earth again. This is ridiculous.

"Do what?" you answer as casually as possible. You really have to stop being so obvious, or you'll scare him away. Sherlock hates having to deal with that kind of things. It was awkward enough the first time you had dinner together at Angelo's, and you didn't even mean anything by it then. You had just been clumsy. But now?

The heat from the toaster makes you uncomfortable. As you stare at the red lines burning the piece of bread inside it, you see what's making this whole thing so difficult.

Sherlock is alive. That in itself could account for the most extreme state of shock.

But that's not all. Suddenly you realize how much his coming back changes _you_, too. When he was dead, sleeping with one of his shirts made you pathetic, but unimpeachable because you were a man grieving. There was something almost tragic in this image of a bereft man clinging onto a smell, and tragedy had a sublime dimension. But now you've fallen to the rank of a mere pervert. Yep, that's it. If you sleep with the shirt of a dead guy, you are a broken man, a tragic hero; but if the guy is alive, you're just a weirdo.

"I haven't googled it yet."

You smile, and before you can stop it chuckles escape you. You rest your hands on the counter to get some sense into you. You seriously have to come back down to earth. Taking on the broken man part was fine as long as Sherlock was dead. Nobody cared if you had never been lovers. He was gone, you cared, you would never get over it and you did not want to, and in the end everyone could relate to that. But now here is Sherlock, confused and terrified at the smallest sign that you are _not_ fine, freaking out if your eyes start to shine because he's probably never googled _how to manage a crying friend?_ Sherlock, who can probably see right through you. And who clearly doesn't want to.

"We should tell Mrs. Hudson," you finally say, your voice perfectly composed.

Sherlock lets out a relieved sigh, and you can't repress a smile. Yes. He definitely doesn't want to see. And that's just fine.

"Mycroft probably called her already."

At this, you frown. "You have to go down and see her, Sherlock. Say hello. Explain." It is funny to be talking to him like you used to, so naturally. As if he'd never been gone. As if he'd never died. You get your mug and take a sip of tea to forget the tightness in your chest.

"I can't explain everything all over again!"

You'd forgotten what a child he was. Your eyes fall on his furrowed brow and his pouting mouth. You take another sip. "You don't need to explain everything." The pieces of toast are ready. You pick them and turn to Sherlock, looking him in the eye. He gulps.

"John, I–"

Oh, damn. What is he panicking for now? You are absolutely calm. So it's not you. Again, you are struck by how similar this scene is to those of the past, in some respects. Sherlock's mind just wandering, you not following at all, trying to make sense of his reactions. Just what got into him now?

The best thing to do is to stay calm and give him time. So quietly, you sit down again and look at him. He seems distraught. A lock of black hair is sticking to the side of his brow, contrasting with the paleness of his skin, and you refrain from stroking it back.

"What if I can never give you what you want?" Sherlock croaks eventually. Then he appears horrified by what he's just said, and glances around like a trapped animal.

Right. So this is what it's all about. You simultaneously feel the urge to slap him and to hug him. One part wants to shout back: you performed a fucking miracle, Sherlock, you're alive, what more can you give me? Another part just wants to embrace him without a word. But precisely. That's exactly what Sherlock is so frightened about. He must have seen it all already. Must have deduced it all.

"Are you sure you really know what I want, Sherlock?" you ask gently. God, he's such a mess. Like a child who's got a bad grade and thinks of all the things that could make his parents hate him even more, think him unworthy. As if they could.

"I killed people." Here we go.

"Me too," you counter back. "More than you."

"I tortured the cabbie to get Moriarty's name."

Strangely enough this feels like a conversation you've already had. It takes you a second to remember. Right. Mycroft. He knew. The bastard knew, and he had been testing you. But to be fair, at least he knew his brother well – knew his fears.

"What are you trying to say?" you ask at last.

"I... Why... Why do you... Me..."

OK, now this is getting a bit too much. Your hand twitches with the need to touch him, placate him in any way, convey the message _It's all right_. He averts his gaze and the shame on his face is almost unbearable. You wish you could wipe it away. Wish you could just encircle his cold body and give him all the warmth you've got. But you know you can't do that. Not yet. Never, maybe. What you have is so fragile. Every word, every gesture counts, and could break the world of glass building around you. You don't want to hurt him. But you have to get him out of the hole he's been digging for himself.

"Why do I what?" you press on softly.

Sherlock shakes his head. He brings the mug to his lips, takes a sip; then another. The corner of his mouth is wet. You've never seen someone drink so clumsily. You wait, and refrain from mopping the wet corner of his mouth. At last, he speaks again.

"I need to get back to the flat – I mean, the other one, the one across the street. Get my suitcase."

You put your mug down and take a deep breath. "OK, we've got to talk about this. You've got to tell me, Sherlock."

"Tell you what?"

"Where do you want to go?"

Sherlock looks down at the mug in his hand.

"You kept the mug I used."

You try not to roll your eyes. So much for talking this out.

"Sherlock..."

He sighs. "What do you want me to tell you, John? I–"

"Do you want to live in London?" you interrupt. There. You'll ask direct questions. Specific questions. Ones he can't avoid.

"Where else would I live?" Fine, ones he _can_ avoid. You're never going to get anywhere if he starts answering by questions.

"I don't know, anywhere you want."

Sherlock swallows. You can see his Adam's apple moving in his throat with unease.

"Do you want me out of London?"

"What? No!" Could he make this more difficult? "Don't be stupid. I..."

You stop, not knowing what to say anymore. You feel the tension rising.

Who's being stupid, after all? Of course it wouldn't be obvious to Sherlock that you should move back in together. He didn't want to come home after all.

Home? Is it even home to him? You only spent 18 months together. Not even two years. He's been gone for almost three.

Right. Only 18 months.

You just sit there, dumbstruck. 18 months. How could he have had such an impact on your life in 18 months, making the rest almost irrelevant? And how could you expect him to feel the same way? You clench your teeth. Perhaps you really are being selfish. Or perhaps not. What if Sherlock doesn't want to live with you again? No, that's just insecurity speaking.

Is it?

"I'm staying with you," you tell him before you can think too much about what you _should_ say and what you _shouldn't _say. "I'm sorry. Kicking me out isn't an option."

Sherlock frowns. "You said it was, yesterday."

Shame sets your face on fire. You look away instantly, trying to cool down the heat in your cheeks.

"Listen, John, I... You don't have to go anywhere."

You look up and catch Sherlock's eyes. Silence.

He doesn't want you to go anywhere. He wants you to be out his life. No, he doesn't.

What can you do when obviously _he_ doesn't even know? He just looks like a lost child.

You sigh.

"Fine. Well. That's a start. We'll go get your stuff then. But before that I want you to go down and talk to Mrs. Hudson."

"You're not coming down with me?" Sherlock asks.

Is that how he sees you? Half-puppy, half-guarding dog? Your behaviour must have been stifling if he's surprised that you'll let him out of your sight for a second. But then again, he's right.

You realize your hand has been trembling when Sherlock grabs it, and freeze.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says.

His gesture stuns you. A memory of a white sheet, a nightmare, and Sherlock poking you at night to help you feel better flashes in your mind. "I know. It's fine."

But since he seems to feel so guilty about it, you still walk him to Mrs. Hudson's door. Just in case. And also because you have no idea how she is going to react.

As it turns out, they seem just find, Mrs. Hudson doing what you wish you could have done but know you can't: let Sherlock see her grief and love and relief, and hug him. You leave them there, her sobbing on his shoulder, and him not even stiffening.

You close the door to the flat quietly behind you. Your eyes meet the skull and once again it dawns on you all at once. Sherlock is alive. You fall into the armchair.

The smell of the flat is different. The two mugs on the kitchen table are telling a new story. But you still don't know which.

Sitting straight, you try to focus on the tasks at hand.

Breakfast, check.

Mrs. Hudson, check.

Lestrade? You take your phone and start typing a text.

**Hi Greg**

You stop. What the hell are you supposed to write? **Guess what, actually Sherlock isn't dead**? That's just crazy. You put down the phone. Maybe you should call him. Yes. That would be best. You dial his number and try not to think too much about how you're going to say this. But you only get the answering machine. You sigh, not sure whether it's in relief or disappointment. Well. You'll call again later. Next.

Molly? Surely she must know. No. Sherlock didn't mention anything about her knowing that he was back. This is a bit awkward. You take your phone again and open a new text. What really is awkward is that Molly doesn't know about Shinwell. You can't tell her about _that_, it's none of your business. And the man seems to be genuinely in love with her. But still, it would be better if she knew... Right. None of your business.

You look at the screen a second before typing:

**Thank you, Molly.**

You press the SEND button. You don't feel like saying more than that. In fact, she'll get everything from just that, and you know it.

Next...

You hear the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat open and her steps up the stairs.

"Hello, there!"

You turn to your landlady with a smile. But it doesn't stay there for long.

"Where is Sherlock?" you ask, standing up at once. She scowls.

"Tut tut! What kind of reaction is that?"

"Sorry."

She smiles at you fondly.

"How are you doing, John?"

"Me? Great. I mean, Sherlock is..."

You look away, your voice dying in your voice. You breathe in deeply.

"I know," Mrs. Hudson says, tears in her eyes. You are taken aback when she hugs you, but you hug her back.

"Oh John, isn't it wonderful?"

"Yes, it is. It is."

Sherlock did not express any joy about being back, and only now do you feel that you can let yours show. And joy is an understatement, really.

"Come down and let's have some tea," she whispers at last.

"Where is Sherlock?"

"Oh, leave him be for a moment, won't you?"

"I'm not–"

"He's just watching some DVDs Mycroft left for him in my room."

You step back and stare at her.

"Mycroft?"

"Don't be so suspicious! You know he loves his brother."

"Yes well he loves him in a strange way, doesn't he?"

She gives you a look.

"Come and have some tea."

So down you go and sit in Mrs. Hudson's living-room. It reminds you of the time when you came and told her you would move back in. Of the times when you used to watch crap telly with her during afternoons when Sherlock was still alive. No. He is alive. He was never dead.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Thank you, we just had breakfast. So what are those DVDs?"

"I don't know. Mycroft said only Sherlock should watch them, and that he should do so alone."

"Right. Tell me that's not suspicious," you grumble, glancing at the door to Mrs. Hudson's room, catching a glimpse of Sherlock, and sitting where you can keep an eye on him. You cannot see his face, but his body seems tense. What in the world is he watching? You shift on the sofa nervously.

Mrs. Hudson comes back with a pot and cups on a tray. "Here we go."

"Thank you."

You drink your tea in silence. You try to avoid glancing too much at the door.

"So... What are you going to do?"

You blink.

"About what?"

"Well, about Mary, for a start."

You take another sip of tea, feeling your throat tighten.

"I have to tell her about Seb."

"Seb?"

Damn. You didn't think before speaking. Mrs. Hudson didn't need to know about that. Dreadful business.

"How much do you know?"

"All I need to know, I think. Except I do not know what happened last night. I take it Sebastian Moran died?"

Sebastian Moran died. Seb died. Why did he have to be the bad guy? No, scratch that. Why did he have to off himself?

"John? Are you all right, dear?"

"Yes, of course."

"He was your friend."

"I know."

"It must have been a shock."

"Yes."

"John. You have a right to grieve."

"To grieve? Sherlock is back, Mrs. H, what would I have to–"

"You lost a friend."

"Yes, well, he did try to kill me. Kind of. But that's not the point."

"Not really, no. John. Look at me. You must not feel guilty about this."

"I'm not feeling guilty! He just shot himself in front of me, after all. Nothing to feel guilty about."

You drink once more, but you can't even taste the tea. You can't talk about it with Sherlock yet. You don't know if you ever will. But he gave Seb back the gun. His gesture still escapes you. Why did he give him the gun? At first you thought they were in league and Seb would shoot you. But surely Sherlock must have known. He would never have given Seb the gun if he had thought that the one who would get the bullet would be John.

"John?"

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, dear. You've had a difficult day yesterday, and I'm afraid you're haven't seen the end of it yet. How is Sherlock?"

"How did you find him?"

"Scared."

Her answer startles you. It shouldn't, because Sherlock _is_ scared, and Mrs. Hudson is perceptive. Still, hearing her say the word seems to make it more real.

"The question is, what is he scared about?" you wonder out loud.

"Give him time, dear. Give him time."

"Yeah," you answer unconvinced and unconvincingly, glancing at the door.

"How did Sherlock react to the crib?"

"He tried to run away."

"Ha! Well we can't be surprised."

"Not really, no. I pushed the crib to a corner, but I can't get rid of the son, though."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widen.

"I'm kidding! Jesus, Mrs. Hudson, I love my son!"

"Of course you do. Make sure Sherlock loves him too."

"He doesn't have to."

"John, Blake will be part of your life. Sherlock will have to deal with that."

You laugh rather brokenly. "If he wants to be part of my life, yes. He never said he did."

Mrs. Hudson puts down her cup sharply.

"Now listen to me, John. If you are going to wait for him to tell you something like–"

"No, of course not! No, I know he won't... No."

You stare down at your tea. For a while you both remain silent, drinking a sip now and then.

"But it doesn't prevent you from saying those things to him," Mrs. Hudson remarks softly.

You look up at her.

"I–"

But before you can any more Sherlock bursts out of the room and dashes down the corridor.

"Sherlock! What the..."

You jump to your feet and get to the toilet to find him emptying his stomach in the basin.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you all right? What did you do?"you ask, putting a hand on his shoulder doesn't answer. He is very pale and looks rather dizzy.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson murmurs, bringing a hand to her mouth. You feel ready to explode.

"What did Mycroft give you?" you ask her between gritted teeth, your hands clenching into fists.

"I don't know, just DVDs! I didn't watch them. He said only Sherlock should. I couldn't have known..."

"I'm going to kill him." Your hand on Sherlock's shoulder tightens slightly. "But first I'll see what this is ab–"

"Don't," Sherlock says hoarsely, grabbing your arm before you can turn and go to the room to see what he has seen on the screen. You squat down and put your hand on his shoulder again.

"Hey. You all right? Would you like some water?"

"I'll get you some," Mrs. Hudson says.

Sherlock's grip on your arm tightens.

"Don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere."

You rub your thumb against Sherlock's palm. Sherlock shivers. Mrs. Hudson comes back with a glass and hands it to him.

"Here, drink some water."

Sherlock brings the glass to his lips, but spits in the toilet basin a few times before swallowing any water. You keep rubbing your thumb on his hand encouragingly. There is no warmth in his hand. You touch the other one. No warmth either.

"Why are you so cold?"

"I'm fine."

"Did you take a hot shower this morning?"

"Yes."

Well, that wasn't enough, then. What can you do to help with the coldness? Deleted memories, he said. But now he remembers them. So what can you do? His hand in yours was warm this morning.

"Should I make some tea?" Mrs. Hudson asks from behind you.

"I think we'll just go home, but thanks, Mrs. Hudson," you answer, checking Sherlock's face for confirmation. Sherlock nods.

* * *

><p><em>When will it stop? When will it stop?<br>When will I feel all soft on the inside?  
>When will I feel soft?<em>

* * *

><p>Back in the flat Sherlock paces the living-room like a tiger in its cage. His restlessness makes you nervous. You walk to the window and open it.<p>

"Are you still feeling nauseous?"

Sherlock shakes his head and falls into the couch. You come to sit next to him and ask quietly:

"What did you watch?"

He remains silent. Your chest tightens. Something is vibrating. In your pocket. Damn, your phone.

"Sorry, just a minute," you tell Sherlock. "Hello?"

"Hi John!"

"Oh, Mary. Hey."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes."

"Ha ha, you must have been tired after last night!"

"Yeah, well..." God, how are you going to tell her? Your eyes follow Sherlock who stands up and walks to the window.

"Blake is awake, but maybe you'd rather have breakfast at 221B?"

"No... Look, I..."

"I was just wondering if we should wait for you here or not." You glance at Sherlock. He's probably not ready to meet Mary.

"OK. I'll be right there."

"No, no! We'll be there in a couple of minutes."

"What? You want to come?" You give Sherlock a worried look,before realizing he's not even hearing your conversation and can't possibly help you make the right decision. Well. He can probably deduce the whole conversation from what you're saying. But he's still not going to tell you what to do. "Hum, well..."

"See you in a minute, then!"

"Wait!"

But she has already hung up. You groan. This is going to be awkward.

"Sorry about that. She probably thought I didn't want to come to her flat."

"Obvious."

You walk up to Sherlock, by the window. Maybe this isn't even about Sherlock. Maybe you are the one who doesn't want to face things. You know Mary will make you face them.

"I have to tell her about Seb." Your throat feels tighter than you thought it would.

"Tell her he was a sniper?"

"No, Sherlock. Tell her he's dead."

Your eyes lock. He doesn't seem to understand. Or maybe he doesn't want to. Well, you'll have to spell it out, then.

"Listen, Sherlock, about the body... I want a proper funeral."

His stare tells you he definitely doesn't understand.

"John, that man tried to kill you." There we go. Does he have to say it as if you were stupid?

"Yes. But he was my friend, too."

Sherlock snorts and turns away. You try very hard not to be annoyed with him.

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

"Well you call Mycroft about it. I don't have a phone anyway."

You blink.

"You don't have a phone?"

"Threw it out the window yesterday."

Could he be any more extreme than that? A door is slammed downstairs and the steps creak. Mary. You catch Sherlock's nervous glance.

"Should I go to the bedroom?" he asks. But there's no time.

"Hum... Kitchen?"

Sherlock complies without protest. A second later the door opens on Mary, holding Blake against her breast.

"Hey! Slept well?"

She already asked you this. She doesn't often repeat herself.

"Hey, Mary. Yeah. You?"

She gives you a peck on the cheek. In the kitchen, Sherlock seems to be frozen. You have to tell her before she sees him.

"Yep. Where's Sherlock?"

"What?" you ask, unsure whether you've heard her correctly or not.

"Oh, there you are!" she says, walking up to Sherlock. Your eyes widen. "Hi, I'm Mary. I heard a lot about you. But you already know that."

You watch, speechless, as Sherlock shakes her hand stiffly. You look at Mary, then at Sherlock, then at Mary again.

"What the–"

"Here, can you keep an eye on Blake for a second? I need to talk to John. In private, if you don't mind."

She winks at Sherlock – _winks_, at _Sherlock_ – and puts Blake into his arms. Is she mad? Yes, of course she's mad, that's not even a question, but seriously, don't mothers have some kind of instinct in regards to their child's safety? Clearly not.

"Hum, Mary, I don't think–"

"Oh, he'll be fine! Just come here."

_Who_ will be fine exactly? But before you can insist any more she is dragging you to the bedroom. She closes the door behind you.

"Good. Some privacy. First things first: how are you doing?"

"How am I... What the hell, Mary? How did you know–"

"Irene stopped by last night."

"Irene? Irene Adler?"

Mary nods.

"Wait a minute, you know her?"

"Now, yes. Actually, we'd met at Jerry's pub previously, but I had no idea it was her."

Your head is spinning.

"Irene Adler came to see you last night?"

"Yes, that's what I just said."

"What did she want?"

"Nothing. Just tell me Sherlock was alive."

"So you knew?"

"I learned the news pretty much at the same time as you, darling, so don't give me that look."

"Sorry. Look, Mary, there's something you must know–"

"No, wait. You haven't answered my question. How are you?"

Her tone is genuinely concerned, and you feel guilty instantly. You're just trying to get rid of the burden of Seb's death by telling her as fast as possible, without even thinking if that's the best for her.

"I'm... fine. God, better than fine, I..."

You look away, feeling your eyes burning and your throat tighten. The voice doesn't come out anymore. How pathetic can you get?

Mary smiles gently and wraps her arms around you, hugging you tightly, shifting from one foot to the other, rocking you like a child.

"It's wonderful, John. Wonderful."

"Sorry, I... I haven't completely recovered from it yet, but I'll–"

"Shh."

"About Blake. I know I was supposed to take him today, and you're going shopping with Catherine, but do you think you could come back earlier? I'm sorry, I–"

"Don't be stupid, John. I'm not giving Blake to you today."

You take a step back.

"What?"

"How do you intend to take care of both of them?! Now I can't do anything about Sherlock, so just leave Blake to me for a few days, and concentrate on your priority!"

"But he's not–"

"Yes, he is."

You look down in shame. "He's not my only priority..."

Mary stares at you. "Just leave Blake to me for a few days, John. I'll call you."

"Mary–"

"Or you'll call me, whichever. And isn't your paternity leave starting next week? That's perfect timing."

"Mary, I'm taking it for Blake!"

"Oh but you're going to need it for Sherlock, believe me." She sticks her tongue at you, and you can't help but hug her again.

"You're an incredible woman, you know that?"

"I know."

You tighten your embrace for a second before letting go.

"Mary. Did Irene tell you about Seb?"

"How he's a sniper? Yes... Yes, she did."

"He's dead."

You can see the news dawn on her almost literally. Her eyes widen, her face falls, and she slowly looks up at you.

"Seb is dead," you repeat softly. Yet your tone is firm, too You take her hands in yours and squeeze.

"He's dead."

"I'm sorry."

"How did he die?"

"He shot himself. In the mouth. Like Moriarty."

"Oh God."

She sits down on the bed, tears welling up in her eyes. She doesn't stop herself from crying, doesn't try to hide it.

"Idiot... Did he have to do this? Bloody idiot... Didn't even say goodbye... Damn him..."

"He did say goodbye. Told me to tell you."

"Don't lie, you suck at it."

You put a hand on her shoulder, waiting. After a while, she wipes her face with the back of her sleeve and stands up.

"All right. Enough of that. Let's get moving."

"Moving? Where?"

"I'm going back to the flat. Just wanted to say hello. And meet Sherlock."

"Mary, wait–"

But she's already opening the door and stepping out.

"By the way, did you think of hiding the shirt?" she asks loudly. You give her a horrified glare, but she laughs and walks up to Sherlock, ignoring you. Of course you know Sherlock must have guessed already, but Jesus, could she make it more awkward?

"Hey Blake! Did uncle Sherlock take good care of you?"

You glance at Sherlock uneasily.

"I'm not his uncle."

"She's kidding," you put in.

"He looks happy enough," Mary goes on, grinning at your son. "Say bye to uncle Sherlock!" _No, Mary, Sherlock doesn't understand cheeky, please just shut up. _

"Not his uncle," Sherlock grumbles again.

"Sherlock, she's teasing you," you say, coming to stand closer to him. You're glad you did when Mary turns to him and looks him in the eye. This doesn't bode well.

"You'd better take your responsibilities," she says gravely. "'Cause we all do, here."

"Mary," you murmur, warning in your voice. But she keeps smiling brightly. Her eyes are still red. You try hard not to think about who is going to comfort her once she's gone back home.

"Well I guess you deserve a few days to adjust. Welcome back!"

She walks back to the door. Welcome back. You didn't even think of telling Sherlock this. Welcome back. It wasn't relevant, because he tried to run away from you. He never intended to come back. Mary stops at the door and turns. "You know, you're exactly like in my dreams. I hope we can talk some more once you've settled in."

And with a wink, she's gone. You realize you didn't even say hi to Blake; You didn't even hold your son.

"Is this all right?" Sherlock asks.

_No,_ you think gloomily. But then you understand he's talking about Mary, and reply:

"She was very close to Seb."

"That's not what I meant."

You blink. "What do you mean, then?" Sherlock stares.

"Are you sure you want to divorce her?"

"What the... Where did that come from?"

"What did she want to talk to you about?"

You glance at him sideways. Maybe this is a good opportunity. Sherlock was always curious, he might be willing to give information in exchange for information.

"I'll tell you if you tell me what Mycroft's DVDs were all about."

"Forget it," Sherlock grumbles. Well. So much for the information exchange. What in the world did he see on these DVDs? Maybe you should just go down again and ask Mrs. Hudson to borrow them. But Sherlock seems so intent on you _not_ seeing them that he'll never let you do this. Maybe she even got rid of them already. Or Mycroft came and did. Mycroft. You'll kill him, you swear you will. Speaking of which...

"Are you feeling better?" you ask Sherlock, scanning his face, which looks less ashen than earlier at least.

"I'm fine," he replies curtly, averting his gaze. Right. Since when have his lies become so obvious? You see his eyes widen and follow his gaze. He's just looking at the table.

"Why... Why do you have this?"

"Have what?"

"That notebook."

Damn. Now you see it. On top of the table. Not good. How can you come up with an explanation for this?

"I... I thought you were dead," you fumble.

Sherlock blinks. "I fail to see how that's linked."

"I mean, I'm sorry I read your diary or whatever you considered it to be, but I–"

"That's not a diary, John, and that's not what I meant. How did it come to be in your possession?"

"Oh. Mycroft gave it to me. Well. Sort of. He gave it to Mrs. Hudson who gave it to Mary who gave it to me."

Sherlock stares. "Just how many people–"

"Don't worry, they didn't read it. I mean it's not the most... Nevermind. Look. I thought you were dead. I was trying to hold on to–"

"But Mycroft didn't," Sherlock interrupts darkly.

"What?"

"Mycroft didn't think I was dead. He knew I wasn't."

"Yes, well..." _Your brother is a bastard. _"I suppose he just... I don't know. You can ask him. I was going to call him anyway."

"Why?"

"Seb's funeral, remember?"

"Oh for God's sake!"

"He was my friend, Sherlock!"

"And wasn't I?!"

"Of course you were! But you're not dead!"

"Oh so would that have been better?"

His words hit you like a bucket of cold water. _Would that have been better? _The cold just spreads from your chest to your entire body. _Would it have been better if I were dead?_ No shiver runs down your spine, but instead your back feels like it has been buried in snow. _Oh so would that have been better? _

You barely register Sherlock opening his mouth, shutting it, taking a step towards you, then a step back. _Would that have been better? _

"John, I–"

"Do you wish you were dead, Sherlock?"

"What? No!" He runs a hand through his hair with what you can only construe as irritation. "Of course I don't, John. I'm not _mad."_

"You don't have to be mad," you say coldly. You would know. You've been there.

"That's not what I... Shut up!"

Your eyes widen as you take in the scene and snap back to reality. What are you doing, questioning him like this? Of course he doesn't wish he were dead. He was just showing anger. He was just showing jealousy over the fact that you seemed to care more about a man who had clearly been a threat and a burden to him for the past three years, than about him. He can't understand your relationship to Seb, but surely you can't understand his either.

"Sherlock..."

"Spare me your pity."

"Pity? Sherlock what's–"

"I don't think I can do this."

Here it is again. The bucket of cold water. You swallow.

"Do what?"

"This!" He gestures vaguely. "You... I can't... I don't know what I'm doing here. You have a wife. You have a child. You have a proper job at a clinic. You can't live with me anymore. It doesn't make sense. You don't need to live with me anymore. There's no point in me staying."

You wait until he is done spilling out everything he has on his mind. Well. Probably not everything. This is Sherlock after all. You observe him calmly.

"You don't believe a word of that."

Turning away from him, you walk to the door. "Now. Shall we go get your suitcase?"

You stop by the door and look him in the eye.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go."

You give him a smile. He follows.

* * *

><p><em>You say that my skin feels like no one else's,<br>That it's different somehow.  
><em>_But I don't understand, isn't a hand just a hand?  
><em>_No you don't understand._

* * *

><p>The stairs creak under your feet as you walk up the steps. The staircase is darker than in 221B. As Sherlock pushes open the door to the flat, you get a strange feeling, the same you got when Mary moved out – a sensation of stiffness in the nape of your nape, the impression that a limb has been removed from your body. It is strange to think of Sherlock living in a flat by himself. Without you.<p>

There is little furnishing inside, but it's a mess. The bed is undone. The suitcase is open next to the table, vomiting half of its contents onto the floor. In the wardrobe, a jacket, a pair of trousers and two shirts are hung clumsily. You wonder what made them special enough to escape the pile in the suitcase.

You cross the living-room which was clearly also used as a bedroom and walk into the kitchen. Its tidiness is striking. It is so clean in fact it looks unused. You open the cupboards – empty. The fridge – empty.

"What have you been eating?"

"Out."

You turn to Sherlock, who is standing in the doorway. His gaze makes you self-conscious and you look away.

"Out?"

"Yes, I've been eating out."

"Oh."

What about before? Was he always eating out when he was with Seb? Or did Seb cook? You remember he said once he was a great cook. He probably wasn't lying.

"Did Seb ever cook for you?" you ask casually as you come back to the living-room.

Sherlock freezes by the wardrobe, and turns to give you a look. You feel your face heat up.

"John, we weren't–"

"Sorry that was a stupid question. Do you need help with the suitcase?"

"John."

"And how much are you paying for this flat? Do you think you could give back the keys earlier than you said and avoid paying until the end of the month."

"Seb and I weren't in any kind of relationship."

"Of course you were."

He stares. You flush.

"I mean of course you weren't."

"John..."

"Look, I didn't mean anything by that question. I just remembered he told me once he was good at cooking, but I never got to taste anything he prepared. So I was just wondering..."

Something lights up in Sherlock's pupils – irritation mingling with jealousy. This is ridiculous.

"I'm sorry," you tell him softly, coming closer.

Sherlock simply puts the clothes into the suitcase and closes it. His wrist seems so thin. Has his skin always been so translucent? The veins in his hand bulge out as if they had been chiselled. You swallow.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"This morning."

"I mean before that."

"Don't know. Can't remember. With the Woman, probably."

"Is she still in London?"

"She's going back to Singapore today."

"Is she?"

He does not seem to be bothered by it, but you wonder... What if it did matter? Irene Adler is the second person who held importance in Sherlock's life these past few years, after Seb. He probably trusted her more, too. He could manipulate her more easily, without a doubt.

"Do you not want to say goodbye to her?"

"Goodbye?" He seems genuinely surprised. "Why would I want to say goodbye?"

"Well... You don't know when you are going to see her again, do you?"

This comes out as more of a question than you intended. Sherlock too must have heard it, for he turns to look at you again. Or rather, to pierce you with his gaze. It hasn't changed. You still feel completely naked under his scrutiny.

"I don't. But I cannot give her false hope."

"What do you mean?"

"She asked me to come with her."

You clench your teeth and try to ignore how your pulse has quickened at his words.

"You don't want to go?"

This earns you a proper look, one of those that used to drive you crazy before Sherlock died.

"John, what in the world would you want me to do in Singapore?"

"I don't know. Just... be with her."

He snorts.

"Please."

"I'm serious, Sherlock! You liked her. Hell, I think you even loved her. It wasn't just attraction. You kept her texts. You were depressed when you thought she was dead. You were keen on impressing her. You insisted on keeping her phone. You saved her life. And she was a proper challenge, wasn't she? You weren't bored with her. Doesn't that count?"

"John."

"You didn't intend to come back here, did you? So what did you intend to do?"

"China."

You blink.

"What?"

"I wanted to go to China."

"But... why?"

"Black Lotus."

He takes his suitcase and makes for the door. The nape of his neck stands out, so white between his dark mop of hair and the black shirt he is wearing.

"Wait a minute, are you serious?"

"Quite."

"So... Do you still want to go there?"

"No."

He locks the door behind him, his long, slender fingers wrapping around the key deftly. His hand too seems to white in the shadows of the staircase, the blackness of the sleeve next to it almost endowing it with a glow.

As you watch Sherlock standing there with his suitcase, ready to leave, you start to panic again. He could be going anywhere. From a flat you did not know he was in, to another where you might never find him. Three years have changed you. You would probably be willing to beg if it made him stay. But you won't, because you know it would have the opposite effect.

Your behaviour cannot be excused now. Since Sherlock came back, there seems to be stakes and goals once more. The world has been endowed with a whole new layer of meaning. The world isn't the same.

"John?"

"Yes. Sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?"

"What? I don't know. Never mind."

Sherlock just stands there, his suitcase in hand. He never carried anything when you were together. When you want to Dartmoor, he didn't carry his bags. Wherever you went, you were always the one carrying everything. You never thought that one day you would hate seeing him carrying his own stuff. You right hand starts trembling.

You turn to the staircase quickly and start walking down, but his voice stops you.

"I don't want to go to China now, because you've seen me anyway. You know that I'm alive. There is no reason for me not to be in London anymore."

He tries to say it casually, but his tone does not ring true. You can tell he is embarrassed. He brushes past you in the staircase. You shiver.

"And even if I speak Chinese, it would have been harder to investigate there," he goes on. "Disguises don't work so well."

"I bet," you say with a smile, trying to imagine him disguised as an old Chinese man as you follow him down.

When you get out of the building, Sherlock stops abruptly in his tracks and you bump into him.

"Sherlock, what–"

You fall quiet as you see the police car parked in front of 221B, and Greg in the doorway speaking with Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock..."

But Mrs. Hudson has already seen them, and Greg, following her gaze, turns around and stares. You can tell from the look on his face that his eyes have met Sherlock's.

* * *

><p><em>When will it start? My broken part.<br>When will I feel all soft on the inside?  
><em>_When will I feel soft?_

* * *

><p>"You should have told us."<p>

You are all sitting in Mrs. Hudson's living-room around tea – again – and you are very grateful to her for having taken inside what could have turned into a fight. Greg is clearly furious. Hurt, and furious. The worse possible combination.

When you walked up to him, saying "I tried to call you this morning but–", he gave you a betrayed look, and then completely ignored you, focusing on Sherlock alone. Mrs. Hudson, being the angel she is, ushered you all inside before bystanders could start wondering what was going on. Greg is sitting stiffly across from you, glaring. But behind his glower you can read genuine pain.

You peek at Sherlock. His features are tense, and you are quite sure he would have run away, had you not been by his side when he saw the police car and Lestrade's back.

"I know Mycroft told me it was for your own safety, but that's fucking bullshit," Greg goes on. So he saw Mycroft. You have to call him about Seb.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widen and you reckon she never heard the D.I. be so vulgar. You have, but only after at least five pints at the pub.

"Do you have any idea how hard it was for all of us? Did you even think about what we would go through? About what John would go through?"

"Greg..." you warn. You don't need Sherlock to hear that. He probably already does. There's no need to rub it in his face. He's back now. And it's all that matters.

"Three years, Sherlock! Three fucking years! And I thought..."

Greg averts his gaze, his brow furrowing. You know that look. His voice must be stuck in his throat. Three years of pain and guilt are bubbling up to the surface, stifling him. You can only sympathize, but still you wish he had waited just another day before coming. You're not sure Sherlock is in any state to take this for what it is: a proof of Greg's caring for him.

You glance at Sherlock again. His teeth are clenched, making his jaw protrude more than usual. His lips are pinched, not as full as they should be. You look away.

"I can understand for me," Greg says rather shakily. "After the arrest, I..." His voice breaks and you really feel bad for him. "But John? Mrs. Hudson?"

You open your mouth to tell him he's got it wrong, that there is no reason Sherlock would hold a grudge against him, because he jumped for him, too, but Sherlock beats you to it.

"I was not trying to hurt you," he says quietly. He is looking down at his cup of tea, his expression dark. You feel the urge to take his hand in yours.

"Really? What were you trying to do, then?"

"I–"

"Don't get me wrong, Sherlock. It's great you're alive. Hell, it's... But I–"

"Moriarty played with your mind, Lestrade. I was angry with you at the time. But it was ridiculous. It is only natural that he would succeed in manipulating a mind like yours."

Greg and Mrs. Hudson just stare at Sherlock. You breathe in sharply and close your eyes.

"Sherlock..." you begin.

"Oh, you know what I mean!" he snaps.

Greg shakes his head, and for the first time, a small smile forms on his lips. But it's a broken smile. He seems exhausted. Now the pain and the guilt are overriding the irritation. You're not sure it's such a good thing.

"Mycroft could have told us," he goes on. "He bloody kidnapped me just now to tell me you were alive, couldn't he have done it before?"

"He couldn't take the risk," Sherlock answers.

"What risk? Nobody else would have known!"

"Oh, so you wouldn't have told John?"

The look Sherlock gives Lestrade in this instant is so intense it sends a shiver down your spine. Just what does Sherlock know? What was on those DVDs? Greg looks shaken.

"I..."

"Of course you would have, eventually. And then what would John have done? He would have done something stupid to make Mycroft tell him where I was."

You grumble something incomprehensible, not quite liking Sherlock mentioning your stupidity once more, but he has a point.

"And what would have been so wrong in that?!" Greg asks.

"He would have died."

The coldness with which he spoke silences everyone instantly. Sherlock's face his grave. Lestrade clenches his teeth, and pain flashes across Mrs. Hudson's eyes. You swallow, feeling the cold irradiating from Sherlock's body. Maybe you're imagining it; it's probably impossible to irradiate coldness. Not physically, at any rate.

"I'm sorry, Lestrade."

"Thank you."

You look up, startled by Greg's words. You glance at Sherlock. He too seems perplexed.

"Well, you still saved our lives, didn't you? You jumped so we could live. The three of us."

So Mycroft told him that too. You try to picture Greg at the Diogene's, being told Sherlock cared enough about him for Moriarty to have taken him as a target too. Then hearing Sherlock is alive. You can hardly imagine his reaction. "Shock" probably doesn't even start to cover it.

At Greg's words, Sherlock's hand tightens on his cup of tea, from which he hasn't drunk at all. He is feeling awkward; again, you can tell from the trapped animal's expression.

You clench your fists and keep your hands firmly on your own knees.

* * *

><p><em>When will I feel all soft on the inside?<br>When will I feel soft?_

* * *

><p>"Well, that wasn't so bad," you say as you close the door to the flat behind you, dragging Sherlock's suitcase, which he did not take when he stood up from the couch in Mrs. Hudson's living-room. It's heavier than you expected, and you can feel the sweat trickling down your back. OK, that's probably not due to the suitcase, but... You glance at the bathroom's door, then at Sherlock, who has just fallen into the couch, grabbing a newspaper. Restless.<p>

"Just take a shower, John, I'm not going to run away," he says.

Damn his perceptiveness.

"I–"

"Or do you want me in the shower with you?"

Your jaw drops, and you flush.

"What..."

"I was joking, John," he says uneasily, his tone hurried. Yes. Of course. What the hell?

"Right. I'll go then."

You go to your room, get your stuff, then head straight to the bathroom without sparing a glance at Sherlock. You close the door behind you and let out a sigh you did not know you were holding. You've got to get a grip.

As you step into the shower, you can't help but listen carefully to see if you can hear him. But you can't. Will you hear the door if he opens it?

You slap yourself mentally. He said he wasn't going anywhere.

But he said that three years ago.

You shake your head, annoyed with yourself, and start the water, checking the temperature, waiting for it to warm up. Maybe a hot bath would do Sherlock some good. You'll suggest it to him afterwards. A massage would certainly help, too, but you can't picture Sherlock letting anyone touch him like this. Maybe you. No. Not even you.

Your pulse quickens but you try to ignore it and regulate your breathing. You cannot stop your brain flashing images. You, getting out of the shower, coming out in your robe with a towel on your shoulders. The flat, silence. You, going into the living-room. Empty. You dash to the bedroom. Empty. To the other bedroom. Empty. On the couch, still the shape of a body – the shape of Sherlock's body, still visible on the leather. Stop it.

You hear steps down the corridor and suddenly the bathroom door opens.

"Can I come in?"

You inhale sharply, trying to dispel the awful images in your mind. Your right hand is trembling.

"Yes of course," you reply quickly.

You hear Sherlock close the door behind him. Your heart is hammering in your chest, and the noise fills your ears. The buzz of the shower. The crushing beat in your chest, so loud in your ears. In 18 months of flat-sharing, Sherlock never came in the bathroom when you were there. Now there is only the shower curtain between your two bodies. You swallow, and focus on the shampoo bottle. It is slippery in your hand as you turn it around to run some of the liquid soap in the palm of your hand.

On the other side of the curtain, Sherlock is quiet. He isn't doing anything. He isn't really using the bathroom – not shaving, not washing his hands. He must be just standing there, perhaps leaning against the wall. Your mouth feels dry. You close the shampoo bottle and put it back on the edge of the bathtub before running your fingers through your hair.

"Do you want me to speak?" Sherlock asks, and his voice sends an electric jolt throughout your body. You swallow.

"What do you mean?"

"So you know I am there."

The water on your chest is tickling you so you turn your back to it and grab the shower gel.

"You don't have to. I can feel your presence."

The spurt of the shower on your back is burning you, sending shivers down your spine. Maybe you should turn down the hot water. Take a cold shower. But now you have shower gel all over your hands and it'd be a waste not to use it first. You bend, and rub your hands down your legs, energetically – methodically. The buzz of the shower is making you dizzy.

"I was thinking, maybe you should take a bath," you blurt out, desperately trying to release some of the tension. "A hot bath. When I'm done, of course."

"But I took a shower this morning."

"I meant, just to warm you up. Your body is so cold."

Sherlock does not answer. You turn up the cold water and turn off the hot one. That should help. You can hear Sherlock shift from one foot to the other on the other side of the curtain. You breathe in deeply, exposing the front of your body to the cold spurt of the shower.

"Sherlock, you don't have to stay here if you don't–"

"I'll need time."

You blink and stop rinsing your hair.

"Time?"

"For what you want from me."

Here we go again. What can he possibly mean by that?

"What do I want from you?" You feel stupid for asking. But if you don't, you'll just be speaking at cross purposes.

Sherlock does not answer, but you can hear him step closer. Soon his silhouette appears right behind the curtains. Your heart misses a beat.

"Sherl–"

He reaches towards you, never pulling the curtain. His hand lands on your left arm, just under the shoulder. Through the plastic of the curtain, you can feel how cold his fingers are. The beat in your chest, ringing in your ears, becomes almost deafening.

"This is not my area," he croaks. "But I will try."

* * *

><p><em>She says you're a masochist for falling for me. <em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	51. Vincit qui se vincit

**A/N: Only two more chapters to go :) Reviewers are loved!**

...

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** _"I feed upon it and extinguish it"_

_**Vincit qui se vincit: **_"_he conquers, he who_ _conquers_ _himself"_

**Warnings: **Rating for this chapter is T.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter L: Vincit qui se vincit <strong>

_Something more, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>My love, I've broken you<br>But you have broken me too  
>We've both got blood on our hands<br>And I won't claim innocence._

* * *

><p>John looks around and Sherlock looks at John. His gaze follows him as he scans the room then walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Sherlock already knows what he is going to ask.<p>

"What have you been eating?"

"Out."

_Ha! You did not quite guess his question, did you, my dear?_ Shut up.

"Out?"

"Yes, I've been eating out," Sherlock answers curtly. _You don't have to snap at _him_, you're the one who answered too fast. _

"Oh."

Sherlock turns back sharply into the living-room and begins to collect his possessions. First, the wardrobe. _Westwood. Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?_

"Did Seb ever cook for you?"

Sherlock freezes. He notices, with wonder, how John's face flushes as he stares at him. _Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John._

"John, we weren't–"

"Sorry that was a stupid question. Do you need help with the suitcase?"

"John."

"And how much are you paying for this flat? Do you think you could give back the keys earlier than you said and avoid paying until the end of the month?"

"Seb and I weren't in any kind of relationship."

"Of course you were." Another stare. John fumbles. "I mean of course you _weren't._"

"John..."

"Look, I didn't mean anything by that question. I just remembered he told me once he was good at cooking, but I never got to taste anything he prepared. So I was just wondering..."

Sherlock stares. _He told you that, did he? And are you regretting you never got to taste his food, perhaps? _

"I'm sorry," John says quietly, walking up to Sherlock, who turns away and closes his suitcase, refusing to look at him. _Scared to see what's there, Sexy? _

"When was the last time you ate?"

_Still scared of sex, aren't you?_

"This morning."

_I'm not scared._

"I mean before that."

_Of course you're not. How could you? My little Virgin._

"Don't know. Can't remember. With the Woman, probably."

_How are you going to touch John with those hands, Sherlock?_

"Is she still in London?"

_Oh right. Why would you want to touch him ever again?_

"She's going back to Singapore today."

_Why would you want to go home?_

"Is she?"

_You have no home. People like us, Sherlock, have none. _

"Do you not want to say goodbye to her?"

_You and I._

"Goodbye? Why would I want to say goodbye?" Sherlock inquires with genuine surprise.

"Well... You don't know when you are going to see her again, do you?"

Sherlock's gaze sharpens. There is unmissable uncertainty in John's voice. Insecurity.

"I don't. But I cannot give her false hope." _Well, clearly you're not giving _him_ any hope now, are you? _

_Just shut up!_

"What do you mean?"

_God, aren't you just so bored of him never following?_

"She asked me to come with her."

_He's just so ordinary. _

"You don't want to go?"

_Keeps asking stupid questions._

"John, what in the world would you want me to do in _Singapore_?" _What indeed?_

"I don't know. Just... be with her."

Sherlock snorts. "_Please_."

"_Be with her"; can you hear how he means "just be with me, please" here? _

"I'm serious, Sherlock! You _liked_ her. Hell, I think you even loved her. It wasn't just attraction. You kept her texts. You were depressed when you thought she was dead. You were keen on impressing her. You insisted on keeping her phone. You _saved_ her life. And she was a proper challenge, wasn't she? You weren't bored with her. Doesn't that count?"

_Well, you're not bored with him either, apparently. Are you becoming ordinary, Sherlock?_

"John."

_Or not. _

"You didn't intend to come back here, did you? So what did you intend to do?"

_I'm wondering about that too. _

"China."

_Yeah, right. As if. _

"What?"

"I wanted to go to China."

_You think he'll believe you? _

"But... _why_?"

"Black Lotus."

"Wait a minute, are you serious?"

_Dear God, he actually _does_ believe you! _

"Quite."

_I had forgotten he was so stupid. _

"So... Do you still want to go there?"

_Do you find it refreshing, perhaps? _

"No." _Shut up. _

Sherlock locks the door of the flat behind him, feeling John's presence beside him without even seeing him. He wonders if that has to do with the warmth his body is exuding, or with his smell perhaps. He tries to see if he can smell him at all. _You're not seriously doing this, are you? Have you become a sniffer dog? _

Sherlock ignores the voice and turns to go down the stairs. He catches John's glance towards the suitcase. His lips twitch. His right hand slowly curls into a fist. Panic. Fear. _Incredible, don't you think? You have such power over him. You could do anything you want really. Anything at all. _

"John?"

"Yes. Sorry." _See? _

"What are you apologizing for?" _You could make him beg so easily. _

"What? I don't know. Never mind." _Make him scream. _

_Just SHUT UP! _

"I don't want to go to China now, because you've seen me anyway." Sherlock tries to go for the casual tone. But John must know there is too much at stake anyway. Nothing is casual about this. "You know that I'm alive. There is no reason for me not to be in London anymore."

Quickly, he goes down the stairs, brushing past John. He shivers. "And even if I speak Chinese, it would have been harder to investigate there. Disguises don't work so well."

"I bet." He can hear the smile in John's voice, and almost mirrors it. _Are you trying to be soppy? But you can't be, Sherlock. Not really. You and I both know it, don't we? _

_Do we?_ Sherlock replies icily. He stops abruptly outside the building as his eyes land on a police car and, in front of the door, talking to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. He stiffens. John bumps into him, sending a jolt of electricity up his back.

"Sherlock, what–"

_Oh that's interesting. What are you going to say to the traitor king, Sir Boasts-a-lot? _

_Shut up, just shut the hell up. _

_You're repeating yourself, you know._

"Sherlock..."

He catches Mrs. Hudson's eye, too late to make her understand she should _not_ look at him. Lestrade turns around. Sherlock is hit by his glower.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's go," John urges him gently, as if it were necessary. Sherlock follows him without a word.

"Hey, Greg," John greets shakily, looking up at the D.I. with a placating smile – and probably a plea in his eyes, Sherlock muses, although he does not look. His eyes are fixed on Lestrade's. "I tried to call you this morning but–"

The look Lestrade gives John is enough to make him fall quiet at once.

"You..." Lestrade begins, addressing Sherlock, his fists shaking.

"Let's go inside, shall we?" Mrs. Hudson cuts in, pulling the D.I. softly towards her own flat. "I'll make some tea."

Lestrade cannot possibly make short work of _her_ – so he complies. John glances worriedly at Sherlock, who nods in what he thinks is a reassuring way. The door closes behind him, then the one to Mrs. Hudson's flat, and for the umpteenth time today he feels trapped. _See? That's why you shouldn't have come back. You should have just jumped that day, Sherlock. It would have been less trouble. Much less trouble._

"You should have told us."

Lestrade's voice snaps Sherlock out of his interior monologue. _Hey, dear, it's not quite a monologue now, is it? _

The D.I.'s eyes on him are burning. They are sending daggers, and yet Lestrade seems to be the one hurting.

"I know Mycroft told me it was for your own safety, but that's fucking bullshit."

Mycroft again. If he intends to meddle so much, why can't he ensure that the people he talks to don't feel murderous and betrayed after he has talked to them? _You're right! The Inspector used to be your puppy, and now he's biting. Quite a turn, huh? _

"Do you have any idea how hard it was for all of us? Did you even think about what we would go through? About what _John_ would go through?"

"Greg..." John mutters. So he calls him Greg now. Did he, before Sherlock left? Sherlock cannot remember. _Is your memory flagging, perhaps? _

"Three years, Sherlock! Three fucking years! And I thought..."

Lestrade averts his gaze. _Ooh pain. You seem to have been quite popular. Well, nowhere near as popular as me, but you get my point. _

_Why am I hearing your voice? _

_Because you're me, of course!_

_You do realize that doesn't make any sense. _

_The question is: does you answering make any sense?_

"I can understand for me. After the arrest, I..." His voice breaks. Guilt. "But John? Mrs. Hudson?"

"I was not trying to hurt you," Sherlock says quietly, eyes riveted on his cup of tea. In the dark liquid his face is staring back at him, another face overlapping it. _Do you miss me, Sherlock? You can't be a hero without me. You can't be the good guy. Not anymore. _

"Really? What were you trying to do, then?" _To run away? To have FUN! _

"I–"

"Don't get me wrong, Sherlock. It's great you're alive. Hell, it's... But I–"

"Moriarty played with your mind, Lestrade," Sherlock interrupts. _And now I'm playing with yours._ Sherlock ignores the voice. He knows it is his own. "I was angry with you at the time. But it was ridiculous." _Was it?_ "It is only natural that he would succeed in manipulating a mind like yours."

This earns Sherlock a stare. He does not understand until John inhales sharply and says:

"Sherlock..."

"Oh, you know what I mean!" Sherlock snaps. _Do they? Ordinary people... You do realize the D.I. could arrest you. But Big Brother will cover it up, won't he? You should actually thank him. Isn't it funny? That you are still indebted to him. _

"Mycroft could have told us," Lestrade continues. _Yes, Mycroft could have done it. Mycroft could have just taken care of everything. That's what he does, isn't it?_ "He bloody kidnapped me just now to tell me you were alive, couldn't he have done it before?"

"He couldn't take the risk," Sherlock replies, still looking at his own reflection in the cup. This was his face, not anybody else's; and yet he couldn't quite recognize it.

"What risk? Nobody else would have known!" _Nobody knows. Do they, Sherlock?_

"Oh, so you wouldn't have told John?" _That you are me. _

"I..." _What would they say if they knew? _

"Of course you would have, eventually." _Eva Jones._ "And then what would John have done?" _Maisie Clark._ "He would have done something stupid to make Mycroft tell him _where_ I was." _Flora Davis. Nah, you don't have to count those three if you don't want to – they were the first victims. But the rest of them? You let the Evil Queen have her way with them. _

John grumbles something next to Sherlock, but he pays it no heed. His eyes are fixed on Greg. _You did not stop her. The blood of her victims are on your hands. _

"And what would have been so wrong in that?!" _Rosie Bell._

"He would have died." _Lydia Young._

He would have died. Uttering the words makes Sherlock feel cold. _Melanie Cooper. _He averts his gaze from Lestrade, whose frustration is palpable. _Rhiannon Patel._ But it is to catch the pain on Mrs. Hudson's face, and so he averts his gaze again. _Libby Martin. _He refuses to look at John, but he still hears him gulp. _Gwendolyn Wood._

The silence is so thick Sherlock cannot even hear the tick of the clock in Mrs. Hudson's living-room. His ears are buzzing. _Iona Morris. _He feels sick. _Patricia Lee. _He must fill this silence or he will go mad. _Jessica Young._

"I'm sorry, Lestrade." _Bryony Rukin._

"Thank you." _Arabella Boulstridge._

Sherlock blinks, and looks at the D.I. Thank you? Somehow this makes him feel even more nauseous. Beatrice_ Thompson._

"Well, you still saved our lives, didn't you?" _Jemima Hughes. "_You jumped so we could live." _Georgina Clayworth. _"The three of us." _Cressida Smith. Phoebe Applegarth. Linette Holter._

Another wave of nausea hits him and he tries very hard not to retch. He clasps his cup. Tries to focus on his reflection.

"Inspector Lestrade is right, you know," Mrs. Hudson says softly. _Jackie Perrett. _

John nods and clenches his hands on his knees. _Dana Stidman. _

Lestrade runs a hand in his hair. _Vanessa Uselton. _"I'm sorry, I don't know what I was doing here. I didn't mean... I didn't mean to beat the crap out of you. Well I did, but..." _Ida Fenton. _"I'm glad you're alive, Sherlock."_Ariel Bay. _

John and Mrs. Hudson exchange a look. _Zoe Walcott._

Lestrade is looking at his cup of tea. _Nora Lockridge._

"Well, then, I'll be on my way. I'm sorry for barging in like this, Mrs. Hudson."_ Sabina Nickols._

"No, not at all!"

"I'm sorry I couldn't contact you before Mycroft did," John says. _Ruth Padmore._

Lestrade shrugs. _Moyra Ottley. _They all stand up. _Selma Ryan. _Sherlock stands up as well, putting his cup back on the table. _Olivia Leason. _The porcelain clinks against the wood. _Nellie Carman. _

"Are you moving back here, then?" Lestrade asks. _Helena Danson. _

John looks at Sherlock. _Iris Devall. _

"Yes," Sherlock says. _Neile Elsbury._

"Great. Well, erm... I'll see you around, then." _Oriane Hambleton._

John gives Lestrade a tap on the shoulder. _Alexia Sandell_. Lestrade looks ill at ease. _Rebecca Lister._

"Yes. Come back in a few days. When things have settled down a bit." _Adriana Stark._

Lestrade nods, and with a last look at Sherlock, leaves. _Berniece Tubb._

"Well, have a good evening, you two." _Candi Basham._

"Good evening to you too, Mrs. Hudson."_ Karen Delaney._

The door follows John up the steps.

_Courtney Presson._

_Lara Rampley._

_Crystal Andrews._

_Laetitia Miles._

_Judy Gartridge._

_Monica Quince._

_Susan Chalmers._

_Madlyn Flock._

* * *

><p><em>I long for something more than me<br>I long for something more than you  
>In my head<em>

* * *

><p>"Well, that wasn't so bad," John says as he closes the door behind him. Sherlock feels the hysteric urge to laugh. Not so bad. He grabs a newspaper and drops into the couch, trying to occupy his mind with something. <em>I love newspapers. Fairy tales. And pretty grim ones too. <em>Sherlock unfolds the paper sharply. "Just take a shower, John, I'm not going to run away."

"I–"

"Or do you want me in the shower with you?"

Seeing how John gapes and turns crimson, he clearly did not catch on the banter.

"What..."

"I was joking, John."

John frowns, then looks away. "Right. I'll go then."

Sherlock resumes scanning the paper. There is a prickling sensation in his hands. John's repetitive glances towards them as they were sitting in Mrs. Hudson's living-room seem to have changed the texture of Sherlock's skin, making it burn and itch and yearn.

He folds the paper and his eyes scan another page. His lips, too. John's eyes linger on them too long. His gaze weighs down on Sherlock's mouth, caresses it as he looks from one corner to the other. Sherlock still feels a heaviness on his bottom lip.

He frowns and unfolds the paper. Scans another page. But John kept glancing away too. Averting his gaze. Self-conscious, but not only: rather, well aware of the weight he was putting down on Sherlock every time he looked at him. And so he tried not to look too much. He kept his hands firmly clenched on his own knees. _Right. Trying not to burden you, is it? _Well. John did seem to need him in the room. He couldn't stay away very long. He tried not to look, but eventually he had to glance, he couldn't stop himself. _Your pet is feeling insecure, my dear. And letting him carry your suitcase is not going to be enough._

John walks back into the room from the staircase and heads to the bathroom. He keeps his eyes fixed on the clothes in his arms, and disappears down the corridor. The door to the bathroom closes. Sherlock puts the newspaper away.

John is upset. Why is he upset? _Maybe because your joke wasn't funny. He probably does want you in the shower with him. Ordinary people like some physical contact. And by that I don't mean torture, but I'm sure he would take it for you. You'll have to do the job, though, this time. I won't be here to make him scream for you. _

Sherlock stands up abruptly and starts pacing the room.  
><em>How are you going to touch him with those hands?<br>He'll want more than just your regal presence in the room.  
>He still sleeps with one of yours shirts, you know.<br>Oh by the way, did you have time to hide the shirt?  
>Let me change the bed sheets for you.<br>I don't think I ever saw you in a bed.  
>Oh God. Thank you. Thank you.<br>Oh God... Sherlock, please... please, Sherlock... Sherlock, Sherlock...God, let me live..._

Sherlock turns round, walks straight to the bathroom and opens the door – without knocking, without stopping once in his tracks. The moment he steps in, he realizes he probably should have knocked.

"Can I come in?" he asks. Which is stupid, because he already _is_ in. _Well, sentiments make people do stupid things, don't they? Now you're one of those ordinary people, my dear... Shut up. _

Behind the shower curtain, John inhales sharply. Sherlock tries to see if his hand is trembling. His eyes scrutinize the silhouette behind the white plastic.

"Yes of course," John says quickly.

Sherlock closes the door behind him. He stands still, not quite knowing what to do; he cannot remember what he came for in the first place. The buzz of the shower is ringing in his ears. Like a dog yapping. A dog barking. A glimmer on the dog's collar, reflecting the moon rays. A cellar shrouded in darkness a tag _Sherlock Holmes consulting detective – the only one in the world_ a smell of patches and of cellophane a fire burning in the hearth on the rug the dog panting biting blood trickling down a white hand the dog kicked – a pule – the dog beaten to a pulp – wails and a howl the dog fleeing down the street then absolute silence on the pavement the headless carcass of the dog and suddenly in his hands a bloody head – John's.

Sherlock staggers and shuts his eyes, willing away the abhorrent vision. His back feels cold. Sweat is trickling down his spine. A huge white corpse thrashed with death throes in the moonlight, eyeless; a skull. Blood. So much blood. The shower keeps buzzing.

"Do you want me to speak?" he asks, trying to keep his voice in check. He watches the silhouette behind the curtain jolt at his words. It is incredible how much power a voice can have. _Do you want me to make him scream for you?_

"What do you mean?"

"So you know I am there," Sherlock replies quietly. _So I know I'm here. Isn't that what you mean, Sherlock? _

John's silhouette turns and grabs the shower gel bottle. _You're not an angel. You're me. You've become me. _

"You don't have to. I can feel your presence." _Why do people do anything? Because they're bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock. _

John's silhouette bends and rubs his hands to his legs energetically. Hurriedly, as if he were scrubbing mud. _It's a game of chess. A bad bottle, a good bottle. You had to take your pick. _

"I was thinking, maybe you should take a bath," John says. _But you just couldn't, could you? You wanted both. You had to play hard to get._ "A hot bath. When I'm done, of course." _Playing. That's all this is about, isn't it? _

"But I took a shower this morning." _Playing me. What did I give you? Bad bottle, good bottle? _

"I meant, just to warm you up. Your body is so cold." _You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. You're not the only one who gets bored. _

_Shut up. _Sherlock shifts from one foot to the other, looking down at his feet.

_But are you clever enough to bet your life? That's the only way, isn't it? Put your life on the line. This is what you're addicted to, Sherlock. You were addicted and that's why I could have you – addicts are so easy to deal with, in the end. Just hold on to what they're addicted to, and they'll run to you like puppies! _

"Sherlock, you don't have to stay here if you don't–" _Begging for more._

"I'll need time." _But I'm gone now Sherlock. You should have jumped, don't you think? Unless you find a way... _

Behind the curtain, John freezes. _Unless you really find another way. _

"Time?" _But sentiments? _

"For what you want from me." _If they don't lead to crime, sentiments are boring. And you'd do anything, anything at all..._

"What do I want from you?"_ ...to stop being bored, wouldn't you? Still now. _

Sherlock steps closer to the shower, slowly.

_Even killing. _

"Sherl–"

_Even torturing. _

He reaches towards John's silhouette, and his hand lands on his arm, just under the shoulder.

_Great men are never good men. _

Through the plastic of the curtain, he can feel how warm John's skin is.

_You will never be good, Sherlock. _

"This is not my area," he croaks. "But I will try."

_And you failed to be great like me._

* * *

><p><em>We burned our whole house down<br>Our bodies in disrepair_

* * *

><p>"This is not my area," Sherlock croaks. "But I will try."<p>

You take his hand through the curtain and squeeze.

"You don't have to," you say firmly. "You don't have to, Sherlock."

But his hand stiffens in yours, and you let go at once.

"Don't," he says urgently, reaching out again.

You extend your palm to him and press it against his. Above you, the shower is still spurting, cold on your body.

"John, erm... I think you should know that I–"

"It's all right."

"No, let me finish."

"It's fine, Sherlock."

"Will you listen to me?"

You start rubbing your thumb against the back of his hand, and keep quiet.

"The day I went to that brothel."

"Valentine's day?"

"Yes. But it's not about that. Well maybe it is. I don't know. Doesn't matter."

He sounds frustrated. You smile under the shower. You don't think you ever heard him say that. _I don't know._ You squeeze his hand tighter, forgetting to feel stupid about it.

"That day, I... dream..."

"You had a dream?"

On the other side of the curtain, Sherlock's silhouette nods stiffly. "Nightmare."

"You had a nightmare."

"More than a nightmare."

"More than a nightmare?"

Sherlock sighs with exasperation. "Yes!"

You keep rubbing your thumb on the back of his hand, trying to soothe him. His fingers start shaking. He remains silent.

"What was the nightmare about?" you finally ask. Behind the curtain, Sherlock shakes his head voicelessly. You give his hand another squeeze. "Look, I'm just going to get out of the shower. Wait for me by the door, and then we can talk about it, shall we?"

"No."

"...No?"

"I... Never mind."

"But Sherlock–"

"I said never mind!"

"Fine! Fine." You keep his hand in yours, refusing to let go. "Your fingers are so cold. I think you should really take a hot bath."

"I don't think a bath will help."

"Well why don't we try and see?"

Sherlock steps back and takes his hand away. The void you feel just then is like a punch in the stomach. You've got to get a grip.

"I'll wait for you by the door then," Sherlock says softly. He closes the door behind him. You let out a sigh and take deep, regular breaths before stopping the water and stepping out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a towel, drying yourself quickly, then putting on you bathrobe. You make sure the bathtub is clean before running the water to make a bath. And then, you open the door.

"There. Wait until the bathtub is filled to its 2/3 and then step in."

"I know how to take a bath, John."

"Right."

You just stay there awkwardly for a second before finally taking a step towards the door.

"Well then, I'll be in the kitchen, so if you need anything, just–"

"Stay."

You freeze in the doorway and look back at Sherlock, your whole body tensing. You swallow.

"What?"

"You heard me. Stay."

"Why?"

"I want you to stay."

The bathroom feels much too warm suddenly. You feel a droplet run from your hip to your foot, slowly, down your leg, and wonder idly whether it is sweat or water.

"All right," you say at last, eyes fixed on Sherlock's, "just call me when you're in the bath."

"No. Stay." He closes the door, and locks it. Your eyes widen.

"Sherlock, what the–"

"I want you to watch me."

You step back, your chest tightening. The warmth in the bathroom is stifling. Deliberately, Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"Now wait a minute–"

"I want you to see."

"To see _what_?"

Panic is bubbling in your chest again. You begin to wonder if he was wounded, perhaps. If he got a scar during those three years of absence, or several. Sherlock does not answer, and keeps unbuttoning his shirt until he can take it off and drop it to the floor. His chest is so white it glistens in the vapour of the bathroom. You avert your gaze, clenching your fists.

"Look at me."

"Sherlock–"

"Just look at me! Please."

_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please. Will you do this for me?_

"Please don't say that," you murmur, your voice trembling. He unbuttons and unzips his trousers, then slowly takes them off. You swallow again, and try to keep your eyes on his. But he is staring right back at you, and the intensity in his gaze is unbearable. He takes off his socks. Your eyes are fixed on a lock of hair sticking to his brow, but when he drops his boxer to the floor, you turn away, defeated.

"John. Look at me."

The beating of your heart hammers in your ears, deafening. The warmth in the room is making you dizzy.

"Sherlock, I can't–"

"LOOK AT ME!"

There is so much anger and despair in his voice that you turn, immediately. Your eyes lock with his. His bottom lip is trembling like a child's.

"Look at me," he repeats, his voice shaking as well. You breathe in. Your fists clench and unclench. Slowly, your eyes move down. To his lips. His chin. His neck. His collarbone. His chest. His stomach. His hipbone. His hands. His thighs. His knees. His shins. His ankles. His toes. _I love you_, is all you can think, with striking clarity. Every inch of his skin feels like a punch in the face.

There is no trace of a scar, though, and you feel a bit lost. You look up into Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm a man," he says.

You blink. "Yes, I know."

He glares, then softens into a jaded expression. "You haven't seen me in years, John. You believed I was dead. You hadn't expected me to die. It was a shock. A trauma. You did not want me gone. It is only natural that you would... perhaps yearn for me in some unnatural way although–"

"Wait a minute–"

"–although you are _not_ attracted to men."

You fall silent. So this is what it's all about. Your face becomes grave. This is serious. You look Sherlock in the eye, then down at his chest, then his groin; and then to his eyes again. Pointedly.

"Does it repulse you?" you ask. "Me, looking." He frowns, then shakes his head as if it were a very stupid question.

"It should repulse _you_," he retorts.

"What if it doesn't?"

"John, I think you're not quite getting the point."

"Oh I think I am perfectly getting the point. What if it doesn't?"

Sherlock swallows. You watch his jaw clench and the saliva being gulped down his throat. He breathes in and his chest heaves.

"Then we shall work on it," he answers.

"Work on it?"

"Yes. As I said. I can... I'm willing to..."

"Sherlock–"

"...try."

You stare at him. You really want to ask whether he is talking about sex or a relationship in general, but you do not dare. In fact, it isn't the most important.

Deliberately, you walk up to him, and embrace him. He stiffens at first, but just for a second, in surprise, then slackens. Very slightly, he starts trembling. But you do not let go.

"Shall we get you into the bath, then?"

"I'm not a child."

"Of course not."

He does not stiffen in your arms, but you can feel him shift a bit. "This is awkward."

You laugh and rest your brow against his shoulder. "Yes, it is. Just get into the water."

This earns you a glare as he steps back, but he complies without protest.

"Is there enough water?"

"Yes."

"How is the temperature?"

"_Fine_."

You furrow your brow a little. "Don't be a twat about this. I'm just trying to help."

He arches a regal eyebrow. "With the cold?"

"Yes, with the cold."

He shrugs and sinks into the bath, water up to his chin. He really looks like a child. You want to sit by his side but do not want to leave the room to get a chair, so you end up sitting on the floor next to the bathtub, leaning against it. You cannot see Sherlock, but you can still feel him. His scent. His presence in your back. You close your eyes.

"You did not call Mycroft," Sherlock says quietly. "About Sebastian Moran's funeral."

You shake your head. "You're right, I have to."

"You don't _have _to."

"I want to." Silence. You turn your head just a little to glance at him. "Don't sulk."

"I'm not sulking!"

"You called him Seb."

"What?"

"Last night, when you talked to him... You called him Seb."

"That's his name."

"His name is Sebastian. And you could have called him Moran."

"Moriarty called him Seb."

"...So?"

Sherlock does not answer. You turn to him again. "So?"

"So nothing. I took his place for three years. I became him. Moran was his John Watson. I needed him as an ally."

"...Right."

He gives you a dark look. You smile, and try not to look at his pouting mouth.

"So... What was your relationship with him in the end?"

"In the end? He tried to kill you. That is not exactly what I call an ally."

"That's not what I meant. Was he... how was he with you? He was a great guy with me. With... God, I have to tell Chris. And Harry. How am I going to tell them that?"

"How about 'Sebastian Moran was an assassin and tried to kill me but eventually shot himself'?"

"Yes, very roundabout way to put it."

"Why would you need to be roundabout?"

"He was our friend, Sherlock!"

Instantly you regret saying this. You did not exactly snap, but still Sherlock flinched at the words. "I'm sorry, I–"

"Don't."

"I'm just curious, you must understand," you continue hurriedly, desperate to get the message across. "He was a good friend to me. He truly was."

"Yes, great friend, making you choose between a bullet and poison."

"Well. I suppose there were more important things for him."

"More important things?"

"Yes," you say pensively. "Such as his bond with Moriarty. What he had been told to do, what he had decided to do."

"Still, that doesn't–"

"It does," you cut in. "It does, Sherlock. Seb was my friend. But if I had been in your stead, and you in mine... I would have shot him just the same."

Sherlock remains silent. You can hear him play with the water and imagine a rather grumpy expression on his face.

"Irritating," he suddenly says. "He was irritating. And way too tactile."

You smile. "He sure was touchy-feely." The moment you've said it, you can feel Sherlock's glare on the nape of your neck and shudder. You turn to him to meet his eyes. He averts his gaze and looks at the bath water.

"He liked to mimic Moriarty," he goes on, "and he enjoyed being aggravating."

You knew it. Funny, now that you think about it: you did muse that surely if Sherlock had known Seb, he would have found him insufferable. As it turned out, you were spot on.

"Are you warming up?"

He blinks, and extends his hand to you. You take it, warm and wet, and smile.

"Won't you tell me more about those memories you deleted?"

"Which ones?"

You hear the uneasiness in his voice, and you know that he sees exactly what you are referring to. But you play along.

"The ones that made you cold, once deleted. You said they came back to you all at once. Won't you tell me a bit more about it?"

"I wasn't aware you were trained to be a therapist, John."

His tone is not more cutting than it used to be, but so different from what he sounded like just a moment ago that you cannot help but wince. You weren't trying to be his therapist. You just wanted to–

"I'm sorry," he says precipitately, holding on to the hand you were, unwittingly, starting to take away. "I didn't mean... I..." He falls silent. But after a while, his thumb starts rubbing circles on the back of your hand. Your eyes widen and you lock them with Sherlock's again. He doesn't look away. You smile weakly, and give his hand a little squeeze.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

"It's fine."

"No, not for that. I mean, for that, too. But I was thinking..."

This time he looks away, and you can see his embarrassment. He hesitates to speak further.

"Yes?" you say encouragingly.

"Before I... jumped, you would have been out by now. Getting some air."

The meaning of his words slowly dawns on you. He's right. Three years ago, you wouldn't have taken all his snappy remarks so well. You wouldn't have been so forgiving. But...

"Why are you apologizing?" you inquire, just to be sure you got this right.

Sherlock glances about uneasily. Right. So you did understand this correctly. You smile.

"Sherlock. Before you jumped, you would never have apologized to me."

He blinks, realization hitting him too. Then he blushes, hard. You watch with fascination as his cheekbones turn pink, then crimson.

"It's too hot in here," he grumbles, sinking once more into the water, trying to take his hand away – but you do not let him.

"Well that's good. It was rather the point."

"John?"

"Mm?"

"I haven't taken any clothes. My pyjamas are in the room."

"Is that a 'go get them for me'?"

His glare under his wet curls and above his blushing cheeks is almost too adorable to bear.

"Unless you absolutely want me to walk there naked, yes."

"It wasn't a problem for you before."

"I had a sheet!"

"Should I get you one?"

Your eyes lock. He frowns. You smirk.

"Fine," he says, letting go of your hand and standing up abruptly. This time you are the one to blush. "I'll get them myself, then."

"Wait a minute–"

"No no," he retorts, stepping out of the bathtub and putting water everywhere, "I'll get them." He grabs his towel and starts drying himself.

"Sherlock–"

"You're too slow anyway."

You shut your mouth. He freezes, towel in hand, hair still wet and dripping. A second later his worried eyes are on you, trying to see whether you were hurt or offended at his words. It is refreshing to see him so self-conscious and attentive. You take his other towel and walk up to him, bringing it to his head and drying his hair gently.

"Don't try too hard. You're doing fine," you tell him quietly. Then you tiptoe, lean in, and press your lips to his lightly, the touch chaste and unalloyed. It lasts but a second. "I'll get your pyjamas."

You step out and close the door behind you before marching to the bedroom.

* * *

><p><em>And now we must rebuild<br>From ashes and silverware_

* * *

><p>"Don't try too hard," John says. "You're doing fine." Then he tiptoes, leans in, and presses his lips to Sherlock's lightly. "I'll get your pyjamas."<p>

The door opens, then closes on him. Sherlock stands, frozen, the towel still on his head. Images from a long forgotten dream flash before his eyes. _"You've_ _been_ _wondering how it would feel, haven't you? I can tell when you're curious about something. You should have just asked._"

Sherlock looks at the door, then at his reflection in the steamy mirror. "_I miss him. Every day of my life, I miss him. Every hour, every second. But it won't bring him back."_

_Dear me, are you being sentimental? _Sherlock glares daggers at his reflection just as John re-enters the bathroom.

"Here," he says, handing him the pyjamas. _Don't you feel just a little bit patronized there, Sherlock? Then again maybe that's what you like. _

_Shut up._

The moment Sherlock looks at John he thinks of the kiss again. How did it feel? He didn't expect it. He didn't kiss back. Was he supposed to kiss back? ...What did kiss back mean exactly? _Pressing_ back? Opening his mouth?

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Your pyjamas."

"Oh. Yes. Thank you."

He takes them absently and starts putting them on.

"Sherlock, you're still wet."

"Just the hair. And you left that towel up there, so it will dry eventually."

For some reason, this makes John chuckle, and he removes the towel from Sherlock's head. _Funny how you keep needing a mother – big brother first, then the flatmate. Are you really that dependent? _

_You're dead. Just shut up. _

_I'm not dead, though, you are. Check the grave stone, Sherlock, that's not my name. _

_Shut. Up. _

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Is your body still cold?"

"I suppose it will turn cold soon."

John frowns.

"Is it all of your body? Even..."

His eyes fall to Sherlock's groin, then to the floor awkwardly.

"Yes," Sherlock replies quickly. "That, too. Especially that, maybe."

John arches an eyebrow. "That's very strange. Usually this area stays warm."

_Not when you want it to stay cold, though, isn't it, doctor? _

_Be quiet._

_I wasn't talking to you._

_Oh so now you're talking to _John_ in my head. Yes. Very clever. _

_I think it is, actually. _

"Sherlock?"

"Yes." _You should probably tell him what the dream was all about._

"What do you want to do tonight?" _Or maybe not. You can omit the part where torturing him gives you a boner, I suppose. But you should tell him about the cold shower. _

"I don't know. I've got nothing to do."

As he says it, he realizes how true it is. Nothing. He's got nothing to do at all.

"John, you do have a job right now, don't you?"

"Yes, but I'm taking a paternity leave starting Monday, so you don't have to worry about that."

"So your son will be here on Monday."

"Actually, Mary said she would keep him a bit."

Sherlock finishes to button up his pyjamas shirt and glances at John.

"Because of me." _Yes, dear, you are causing trouble in paradise!_

"What?"

"She's keeping him because of me." _Obviously. _

Apparently, the tone he uses does not please John, for he furrows his brow.

"She's just being nice, Sherlock."

"I'm sure she is," he replies rather coldly. _Treating you like a child, that's all. _

John gives him a look but does not continue the conversation.

"Right. Do you want something for dinner?"

"I'm not hungry, but you can have something."

John smiles. "Glad I have your authorisation."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do."

They look at each other for a while until the atmosphere begins to get awkward again. _He wants a little more from you than cutting remarks and touches through the shower curtain, methinks. _

_I don't care about what you think. _

_And about what _he_ thinks? _

Eventually, Sherlock follows John out of the bathroom and into the living-room, where he drops into the couch again and grabs the newspaper. Restless. Three years ago, he would have checked his website. But his website has not been updated ever since, and people think him dead. No one would contact him for a case. His hands twitch and yearn to do some experiments, but all his material is gone. There is nothing for him to do here. Nothing at all. _And you only realize this now? Who's slow? _

"Anything interesting?"

"What?"

"In the paper."

"Oh. No."

John gives him a strange look, and Sherlock shifts a little on the couch.

"We'll go out and buy some material for your experimenting on Monday," John says as he sits down into his armchair. Sherlock's eyes widen. "Do you have a new laptop?"

Sherlock nods, his eyes fixed on John.

"You could update your website. Or I can post something about you being alive on my blog. I just thought it was a bit too early for that, and..." _And clearly he wanted to keep you for himself for a few days at least. _"Well, anyway. I can do it if you want."

"It's fine."

"You sure?"

"I said it's fine, John."

So Sherlock just keeps reading the paper, gradually paying more attention to the articles his eyes are scanning, and John just flips through weird notebook, scanning the pages, sometimes stopping to read a few. Sherlock wonders idly if that's his journal, and why he would ever want to start a journal. Then he remembers. _His_ notebook is here too.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Why did you keep my notebook?"

John pauses and looks up, not answering straight away. "It was one of the few things I had from you."

"But it wasn't meant for you."

"I know, and I'm sorry if you feel that I've invaded your privacy–"

"No, John, it just wasn't meant to be _read_."

"That's not true. You knew Mycroft would find it. You guessed, anyway."

_Ooh. Did Big Brother tell him that? Or did he found out alone? _

"How...?"

"The ciphers. Mycroft told me what they meant."

"So he deciphered them."

"Not all of them. Not the last one."

Sherlock smiles a little. _Sibling rivalry, indeed... But don't worry my dear, the Iceman wasn't nearly as fun to play with as you. _

"Mary and Mrs. Hudson did, though."

Sherlock's face falls. "What?"

"They used some tool on the internet."

"But..."

"I think they guessed the password."

_Ha ha! Beaten by another woman! And John's woman, to boot..._

_Shut up. That's not beating. _

_Isn't it? _

_There was a message, it was meant to be deciphered. _

_Not by her. _

_But the message could well be meant for her. _

"_You're an idiot." "Why?" "Caring." _

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"You keep switching off. Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Tired?"

"No."

"OK."

Sherlock eyes John warily. Then he glances at the clock. _Maybe Johnny boy is tired but doesn't dare say it, don't you think? _

_I knew that. _

_Ha!_ _Ready to make him scream? _

Sherlock ignores the voice and stands up.

"Actually, I think I am tired. I'll go to bed."

John's eyes fill with panic.

"Oh. Yeah. Right. You... Yes."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "You don't have to come to bed now if you don't want to. Just don't turn on the light when you come."

John's face lights up noticeably, relaxing with unmistakable relief and something close to gratefulness. _Is he so stupid he'd already forgotten that you talked about a next time this morning? Or is the insecurity just making him even more foolish? Oh well. Either way, this is your chance. You could probably do anything you want to him in that room, and he wouldn't leave. _

Sherlock turns around sharply and walks to the bedroom.

"Just come to bed when you feel like it," he says before disappearing down the corridor. It only takes John three minutes to join him in the bed, just the time to put on his nightclothes; Sherlock counted. _And what does that mean, you counting the seconds before he comes?_

John slips under the sheets and puts his head on the pillow. _He's not dead. So we can have some fun with him. I'm sure you're going to enjoy this. You enjoyed it once. In a nightmare. _

Sherlock's hand shakes a little as he takes it out, and he makes sure it no longer does when he puts it again between him and John, palm open, waiting for John to put his hand there. _That's not what you want though, is it? You want his voice. His screams. _

_I don't. _

_Really? Maybe you don't. You're a monster, Sherlock. Like me. Monsters break their toys. Break their pets. _

John takes Sherlock's hand and Sherlock jolts at the contact.

"Hey. Are you all right?" he murmurs, rubbing his thumb against Sherlock's palm. Sherlock shivers.

"Yes," he croaks.

"Why is your hand so cold? I thought the bath–"

"It _was_ warm. It just isn't anymore."

John says nothing, but snuggles up closer to their joined hands.

"Sherlock, erm... I don't know how you're going to feel about it, but if you come closer, you can take some of my body heat."

_You don't really need to come closer though, do you Sherlock? The good doctor is already in heat. Poor Johnny. Must be hard for him to have you so close and dare do nothing. _

Not quite sure what to answer, Sherlock simply follows the advice. Their legs touch, and his thigh collides with John's knee. He blinks.

"You really are small," he blurts out.

Even in the dark, he can see John flushing and opening his mouth to protest.

"I–"

Sherlock kisses him. He doesn't know why he does it, isn't even sure that's really kissing – but he mimics John's earlier gesture and presses, very lightly, his lips to his to shut him up, before retreating prudently. In the dark, he watches out for John's reaction. He can feel the heat radiating from his face, and from his body. Tentatively, John leans in again, and gives him another kiss, just as light, lingering slightly longer. Then he lies back, and murmurs, squeezing his hand:

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock already knows it will not be, but he squeezes back.

Chains clicking. A squalid room. John's voice. "Please... Please stop..." He screams. The whip cracks again. "SHERLOCK!"

Hands striking a match. A flame lighting a cigarette. "Who goes around kissing people in their sleep?" "Jim did. Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul."

John writhes under the whip. Sherlock retches. Sebastian keeps smoking, aloof. Moriarty grins.

"Oh, being enthusiastic, aren't you?"

"In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed."

"No... please... stop this... please... _AAAAAAAAAAAH!"_

"What... would you like me to make him say... next?"

"Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear."

"Should I make him scream for you again, Sherlock?"

"No... please... Sherlock... Sherlock! _AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"_

"Stop it."

"Sherlock... Sherlock! Aaah! Please, Sherlock... Sherlock!"

"Ooh, you changed the setting! I liked the room and the chains, but nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart. Would you like that, now, Sherlock?"

"Sherlock, run! _AAAAAAAH!_"

"Be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."

"Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the Horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds and shall find me unafraid."

Steps down the alley of a cemetery. A marble headstone with a Czech name on it.

"I don't understand why you needed to see the grave. You of all people should know how delusive the name on a gravestone can be."

"I told you to keep an eye on her, not to kill her."

"What, are you being sentimental?"

"Sentiments. Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock."

"Do you know she tried to off Mary Morstan? Y'know, John's wife! …Or perhaps I should've let her?"

"I've come to like John, I don't want some psycho to–"

"Don't. You. Dare."

"Ooh, touchy. Come on, mate, I saved the ass of the love of your life. Isn't it worth something?"

"You'd better take your responsibilities. 'Cause we all do, here."

"You're still a kid, Sherlock, still a kid. Wanting to stand up to Big Brother. Wanting to run away from home. See the world. The big bad world. So what did you learn?"

"You make it sound like some coming-of-age novel."

"Isn't that what it is?"

"How do you like John's screams, Sherlock? Would you like them to be a bit louder? Enough to wake up the dead, perhaps?"

"Sherlock!"

"That's why we're kinda similar, you and I. We both get off on murders."

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives! Just so I know,do you care about that at all?"

"Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain."

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope."

"You need me, or you're nothing."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"We're just alike, you and I."

"You... you machine!"

"Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

"Sherlock... please... _AAAAAAH!"_

"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort. Go on. For me. Pleeeeeease?"

"Sherlock! Please... _AAAAAAAAAAH!_ Sherlock!"

"I don't have to die… if I've got you."

_Rosie Bell. Lydia Young. Melanie Cooper. Rhiannon Patel._ _Libby Martin. Gwendolyn Wood._ _Iona Morris. Patricia Lee._ _Jessica Young._ _Bryony Rukin._ _Arabella Boulstridge._ _Beatrice Thompson. Jemima Hughes. Georgina Clayworth. Cressida Smith. Phoebe Applegarth. Linette Holter._

"I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do."

_Jackie Perrett. Dana Stidman. Vanessa Uselton. Ida Fenton. Ariel Bay. Zoe Walcott._ _Nora Lockridge. Sabina Nickols. Ruth Padmore._ _Moyra Ottley. Selma Ryan. Olivia Leason. Nellie Carman. Helena Danson. Iris Devall. _

"You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

_Neile Elsbury. Oriane Hambleton. Alexia Sandell_. _Rebecca Lister. Adriana Stark._ _Berniece Tubb. Candi Basham. Karen Delaney. Courtney Presson. Lara Rampley. Crystal Andrews. Laetitia Miles. Judy Gartridge. Monica Quince. Susan Chalmers. Madlyn Flock._

"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

"I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me."

"Oh God... Sherlock, please..."

"You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes."

"Please, Sherlock..."

"Thank you. Bless you."

"Sherlock, Sherlock..."

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased with what you see?"

"God, let me live..."

"D'you know what lies under the Lotus tree, Sherlock?"

"It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll."

"The Behemoth, Sherlock."

"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock SHERLOCK!"

John's scream dies as he falls into the abyss.

"I am the master of my fate..."

"If you ever see someone falling in a chasm, don't jump after them. It is rather unlikely you'll have a chance to _catch _them."

"...I am the captain of my soul."

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock screams as he jumps out of bed, shaking uncontrollably. John jumps and sits up right away.

* * *

><p><em>You're in my head<br>You're always in my head_

* * *

><p>You cannot remember what you were dreaming about, but it was a nice dream that shatters when suddenly Sherlock breaks away from your embrace and gets out of bed with a hurry betraying terror and intense disgust. Not to mention his scream.<p>

"Sherlock?! What's wrong?"

You hear him panting in the dark, his breath shaky, but he does not answer. Then he throws himself on the door, and starts running.

"Sherlock!"

You jump to your feet with panic and dash after him.

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?!" you ask as you see with horror that he is putting on his shoes and grabbing his coat. "Sherlock, wait!" But he pushes you back feverishly, opens the door and runs down the stairs.

"Sherlock!"

It takes you mere seconds to slip into your shoes and grab your jacket, but these seconds are precious and when you get out on the street Sherlock is already running down the street towards Marylebone Road. You run after him.

"Sherlock, wait!"

This is bad. Night terrors. John has of course heard about them, and even had some patients – children, usually, but an adult too, once – with such issues. John isn't a specialist of parasomnia disorder, but he can tell this wasn't just a normal nightmare. Sherlock could not hear him. John keeps calling, but he remains unresponsive. He screamed when he jumped out of bed. John could not reach him. _Confused and inconsolable_ were the words used to describe some of the symptoms, John remembers. He tries to run faster.

"Sherlock, please!"

It starts raining. You curse under your breath. Your heart stops when you see Sherlock stop in front of a nightclub and get into one of the cabs waiting in line.

"Oh God."

You get to the second cab in the line just as the first drives off.

"Follow this car, please!"

"What?"

"Just follow the damn cab! I'll double your fee."

This seems to be a good enough incentive, and the cabbie complies at once. Your breath is short, and you're trembling slightly. Good thing he did not notice you were wearing pyjamas bottoms. You feel for your wallet in your inside pocket and sigh with relief as you find it there. Good. You only pray Sherlock won't go too far.

"Love affair?" the cabbie asks.

"Not exactly," you reply darkly, trying to understand where you're going. The cabbie looks disappointed.

Your eyes never leave the cab in which Sherlock is sitting. You grab the seat and stop breathing every time you think you might lose it – fortunately the cabbie must have got the message, for you do not need to urge him to go through a red light when needed. Finally, the cab in front of you stops on the side of the road, near a cemetery.

"Here you are. Newport cemetery," the cab announces. "That will be–"

You just put a twenty pound note where you're suppose to leave the money and run out of the car almost as Sherlock does.

"Hey! You didn't pay!" the cabbie in front shouts at him, getting out of the car. You curse, take out another note, shoves it in his hand, and turn to run after Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Wait!"

But he doesn't. He keeps running, fleeing God knows what, not responding to your calling his name. You know where he is going. It terrifies you to think why he wants to go there, in what set of mind he must be to have run out into the night, got on a cab, and come here. To his own grave.

The rain keeps pouring on you, and you can hardly make out his silhouette at all. But you remember where his grave is. You should have told the cabbie to wait for you, you realize. You have no idea how you will get home. You did not take your phone with you.

"Sherlock!" you call. Thunder rolls in the distance. Great. Not just rain. A storm. "Sherlock!"

You get to his grave. Finally. There he is, on his knees, digging the earth. You see yourself, almost three years ago, right where he is now, digging the earth like he is now. "Oh Sherlock..."

Slowly, you walk up to him, trying to catch your breath. Sherlock keeps digging, frantically, and as you come closer you realize he is saying something, repeatedly, like a mantra or a curse.

"Get out of me, get out of me, get out of me, GET OUT OF ME!"

"SHERLOCK!"

He jolts at the sound of your voice, and freezes. You walk up to him. He is trembling, violently, and hitting the earth with his fists. As you kneel down next to him, you realize he is sobbing.

Somewhere in your mind a voice reminds you that people who suffer from night terrors usually lash out at the person they see once they regain their senses. You ignore it and put your hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, it's me. It's John. Can you hear me?"

Only sobs answer you. He keeps punching the earth. Slowly, very gently, you put your hand on one of his fists.

"Sherlock. It's all right. Everything's all right. You're here. Just you. Nobody else is in you. Moriarty is dead. And you're alive, Sherlock. You're alive."

A sob, louder than all others, rips the night and you shudder. Sherlock isn't crying. He is hurting. Just hurting, so much he must let it out, any way he can. Perhaps he hasn't fully regained his senses yet. You take his hands in yours and start rubbing your thumbs on their backs.

"I'm here, Sherlock. You're here. It's all fine. Everything is going to be fine."

Progressively, you come closer and closer to him, until you are hugging tight, a hand on the nape of his neck. Holding him like a child; trying to protect him from himself.

* * *

><p><em>I long for something more than me<br>I long for something more than you  
>I long for something more<em>

* * *

><p>You are in a car and John is holding you. He has been holding you for a long time. Under the rain, in front of the gravestone. Your gravestone. Under the rain, through the cemetery, among graves and corpses below. His hand never leaving yours. His thumb never stopping its circular strokes. The car was waiting outside the cemetery and John exchanged a few words with the man sitting in front. It is silent inside the car, but outside the rain keeps falling, beating on the bodywork.<p>

"Thank you," John says as he gets you out of the car. You are still shaking. There are no more voices in your head. Just John's, who keeps murmuring in your ear, as you cross the cemetery, during the car ride, and as you walk up the stairs, "It's all right, Sherlock. Everything is fine. Moriarty is dead. You are alive. You are alive, Sherlock. And you're back home. In London. In Baker Street. We're going back home, Sherlock. You're home."

And now you are.

Outside the thunder keeps rolling, and the rain, falling. You look at the skull grinning on the mantelpiece. Yellow flowers next to it.

"Here. Let's go to the bathroom. We're drenched."

You follow him, without a word, as he leads you down the corridor. The fog in your mind begins to clear up. Your eyes widen. The cemetery. The cab. The grave. John. That car that brought you back. _Mycroft. _A wave of nausea hits you. The gravestone must have been bugged.

"Take your clothes off," John says softly, undressing himself. He lets go of your hand, but remains close enough for you to touch. Still, the loss of the soothing circles of his thumb on your skin makes terror rise in your chest again. You unbutton your shirt, trying to get a grip, and realize your hands are no longer shaking. But you feel cold. So very cold. "Here. Take a towel, and dry your body," John says. "I think Mary left a hair dryer somewhere around here. I'll take care of your hair."

The cemetery. The grave. You really did go there. Mycroft. The grave must have been bugged. Yes. Bugged. The cemetery. Your grave. But with Moriarty's body in it. The earth. You look down at your hands, muddy like your shoes. Like your trousers.

You shiver. John sees it.

"Do you want to take a shower, Sherlock? A hot one."

He is still drenched and dripping, but plugs in the hair dryer for you and waits for your answer, his eyes fixed on yours. He is still drenched, just a towel wrapped around his waist, for the sake of decency, for _your_ sake, ready to dry your hair, ready to help you in the shower, ready to hold a towel for you and help you dry yourself while he is still dripping. All day you have been trying to find what it was that made you apologize for what these three years had done to him. Now you have the word. Selfless. Those three years have made him selfless.

Without a word you unplug the hair dryer, pin John against the wall, and press your lips against his.

* * *

><p><em>I long for more<em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	52. Crede quod habes, et habes

**A/N: One but last chapter :) I hope you enjoy this one! Reviewers are loved ;) **

_( NB: To those of you who review to ask for an update of other stories – thank you, I am very flattered that you would go to such lengths to get more chapters; and since most of you probably aren't reading this story, it might be useless for me to answer here. But since I cannot PM you, I will repeat myself: I haven't given up on any other stories. I only want to finish this one first. So please be patient! I'm doing my best. )_

...

**Nutrisco et extinguo:** "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

**Crede quod habes, et habes****: **"believe that you have it, and you do"

**Warnings:** Rating for this chapter is M.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter LI: Crede quod habes, et habes<strong>

_Palm of your Hand, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Oh boy, it's over, you got me<br>You shot me right between the eyes_

* * *

><p>The first thing you feel is the wetness of his lips. John is still drenched, and you can smell the rain on him.<p>

The second thing is warmth – unexpected, overflowing warmth, and you realize it is because he has opened his mouth in surprise. But he does not kiss back. He lowers his hand holding the hairdryer and puts the other one on the nape of your neck, stroking it with his thumb.

But he does not kiss back.

You shiver and step back, breaking the kiss. He looks you in the eye. His gaze is inquiring; it searches yours, trying to see whether you have come to your senses or not. A small smile lights up his face.

"Welcome back," he murmurs. "How do you feel?"

"Wet."

John chuckles. "No wonder. Come here."

Gently, he pulls you down towards him and starts drying your hair with a towel, the warmth of his hands spreading to the white fluffy fabric. "We can use the hairdryer afterwards. And take off your trousers. You can just put them in the bathtub, we'll take care of the laundry tomorrow. You sure you don't want to take a hot shower?"

You nod voicelessly.

"Your coat is drenched," he goes on, putting it in the bathtub as well. He rubs the towel behind your ears, then along the line of your hair in your neck and above your brow. You want to ask him whether your kiss was any good. It probably wasn't, since he did not kiss back. You try to deduce what he thought of it by observing him as he dries your hair, but he keeps rubbing that towel on your head and over your face and it makes you want to bite. You frown and shake off the idea. He is just trying to help.

You glance at him and catch his eye. There is warmth there, too; but you can't read anything else. Were you any good?

Without warning, you pull him into another kiss. If that's what it is. Pressing your mouth to his. Maybe people kiss each other when they are stupid and do not know what else to do with their mouth. When they do not know what to say. When the ability to speak suddenly fails them. When they are confused and exhausted and still want to convey something, but cannot formulate any coherent thought, not to mention a coherent sentence.

John's mouth moves slightly against yours, as if shyly – unsure. Well. You're not sure what you're supposed to do either. But John should. He must have kissed countless times.

Or perhaps it repulses him but he does not dare voice it. Abruptly you break the kiss and step back.

John is flushed, still standing there drenched, his gaze glazed. His pupils dilated.

So not repulsed. You frown. John swallows.

"You should take off your trousers," he says again, his eyes never leaving yours, clearly trying to keep some composure.

"Is that an invitation?"

You have no idea where that came from. The moment you've said the words, your eyes widen in surprise and mortification. You've spent too much time with Seb. John flushes even more and looks away.

"Of course not. But you'll catch a cold if you keep wet clothes on. I'm sure you have other pyjamas somewhere."

_Of_ _course_ _not._ That was a little sharp. Well, it's a good thing, though. Naturally. It is much better that way. Desire is messy and irrational anyway. Not your area. Relationships are dull.

Fine, not _all_ relationships. Friendship isn't dull. Just dangerous. And dangerous is...

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

John eyes you strangely. "Did you want it to be an invitation?"

* * *

><p><em><em>I'm sober, I'm over the haze of never knowing<br>If I can still feel what is real  
>Will someone punch me out?<em>_

* * *

><p>You blink.<p>

"What? No! No."

Quickly you take off your trousers and put them in the bathtub, only realizing afterwards that you have nothing to change into. You repress a groan.

But John seems to have regained his composure and comes up to you with a smile. And a towel.

"That's enough!" you growl, snatching the towel from him. "You're still wearing your clothes."

John blinks. "Yes, but I–"

"Just take them off."

His face reddens again and he fumbles: "Sherlock–"

"And please stop blushing."

You did not mean it in any deep sense. His blushing just made you feel awkward. But when he looks down in shame and falls silent you wish you hadn't said anything. You feel cold. So cold.

"John. Please take your clothes off. I'm cold."

"I don't see how–"

"We'll both feel much better dry."

You don't know what you're saying. You want John to change so he can use that hairdryer on you, possibly all over your body because you feel terribly cold and you are beginning to mind. You did not think it would bother you. It did not before. Not until you came back. But since John has touched you, the cold seems all the more unpleasant. All the more engulfing.

"Sherlock?"

"I need something to put on," you say, looking around. You become aware of just how exhausted you are.

Looking down, you see that your hands are still grimy from the digging. There is dirt under your nails. You shiver. "Am I losing my mind?"

John takes a step towards you and replies firmly, putting a hand on your arm: "No, you're not. You had a night terror. It's all right."

"It's not."

"It's nothing too serious, Sherlock. It can happen in adults with PTSD–"

"But I'm not traumatized."

"...Right. Well, it doesn't matter. I'm here. I'll try to catch you before you can take a cab next time, but even if you do, I'll follow you, and catch you eventually. It's fine, Sherlock, it's all fine."

"How is it fine if I go digging my own grave in the middle of the night?"

John's gaze lingers on you. "I did that, too. Dig your grave. In the middle of the night. And I threw up afterwards."

You look at him. "Did you have night terrors?"

He shakes his head with a weary smile. "No. I just..." He swallows and averts his gaze. Then he lets out a little laugh. "I suppose I was a bit mad, yeah."

"John." There is warning in your voice. And perhaps a bit of pleading too, though you don't really want to admit it to yourself. You know he doesn't think he was mad. He was just grieving. And hurting, badly. Hurting because of you.

"I missed you," he lets out at last.

Your eyes widen. He forces himself to look at you again. "I missed you, and I suppose something did snap in me. I never went again. For more than two years after that, I couldn't visit your grave."

"Well considering I'm not in it, it isn't such a bad thing."

You attempt a smile. His grip on your arm tightens until it is painful for you.

"John–"

"Here. Put on your blue gown. Don't walk around naked, you'll really catch a cold."

He strips and since he isn't looking at you, you allow yourself to look at him. Out of curiosity. Out of fear. You do want to touch him, but in a strange way that has nothing to do with hormones. You do not crave him. When his hand is on your arm, somehow it is enough. You can feel a void the moment he turns to take off his clothes and his skin is not longer against yours. But you do not feel desire. You close your eyes and swallow. Images flash in your mind. John's fists clenching on white sheets. John's voice begging, his gaze pleading, his back arching. Images that you saw on a TV screen and do not know what to do with.

Your eyes snap open.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I..."

What are you going to say?

He asked nothing of you.

He did not kiss you back.

You look him in the eye. Perhaps you do not understand desire. But you felt it, once, with the Woman. Maybe you can simply no longer feel it at all. Maybe you can no longer desire anything. You did not desire her in the little cottage; you felt nothing when she kissed you.

Do you feel something when John kisses you? When you kiss John?

You don't know. For you to know he would have to kiss you back.

"Sherlock?" he asks again, even more gently, putting his hand on your arm once more. He is still wet, and stark naked. You look at him, up and down. You feel cold. Through the fabric of your blue gown, his hand is burning you. Slowly, you lean in, and press your lips to his again. It vaguely makes you think of a dog, the way they always come back and lick their master's hand. It never made sense, the dog just came, and insisted on nuzzling your hand and licking it. Or your face. Whichever was closest.

This time, John lets out a moan and kisses back a little. He smells like rain and shampoo — the one you too used this morning. You had never noticed, but living together, your scents must become similar in some ways. Different in others. John did not use the same aftershave as you three years ago. You try to remember what brand he used, but cannot pinpoint it. He doesn't smell like aftershave; he didn't shave this morning, and his skin prickles against yours. He tastes like mint — his toothpaste — and something else, something that is more _him_, but you're not sure, and he doesn't give you time to explore. Abruptly he turns his head so your lips crash onto his cheek. You collide with his scent and unshaven skin. To make up for his sudden gesture, John kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, and the spot just underneath your ear. There, he stops, and simply hugs you.

But still you see it for what it is: a rejection. That is, until you feel a hardness against your thigh, not very hard, but not as soft as you expected, and you have to revise your assessment.

* * *

><p><em><em>And oh boy, I know, boy<br>I need a breakdown__

* * *

><p>"What are you doing?" John asks quietly. He steps back to look at you.<p>

"What do you want to do?" you counter.

His eyes are locked with yours, but his face is so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your throat. For a few seconds, you think he will give in. His breath is short, his face, flushed. You watch a drop of sweat – or is it still rain water? – trickle down his temple. His lips part and you think he will lean in again and truly kiss you this time, and you can find out how your body reacts to it. But he smiles and shakes his head.

"Let me dry myself a bit and I'll take care of your hair."

You do not point out that you could take care of it yourself, and you watch him as he swiftly rubs his towel against his own body before slipping on his bathrobe. John was somewhat aroused by your touching him, but you are just as limp as before. And you feel just as cold.

"Come here. Sit on the rim of the bathtub, will you?"

You almost smirk. Almost. John is too short to blow dry your hair if you are both standing. Somehow you find the thought more amusing than you should. Then you remember the cemetery and the rain and the manic laughter and the screams and you forget to smile. You simply comply, feeling colder than ever. But you jump when John turns on the hairdryer and hot air blows in your hair. He tousles your curls gently, a smile on his face. He looks ridiculously happy. His fingers brush the nape of your neck, then the back of yours ears, and something flutters in your chest. You realize it is simply warmth. You try to concentrate on his scent, on the drops, sweat or water, trickling down his throat, on his lips, on the skin of his chest visible under his loose bathrobe. Nothing.

"You've always liked women," you say as if that could justify _your_ lack of arousal.

"What?" John asks, stopping the hairdryer. You cast your gaze down, embarrassed.

"This isn't my area," you mutter.

Slowly, John sits down on the rim of the bathtub next to you.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" he asks quietly. "You don't have to do this if it isn't what you want."

You arch an eyebrow. "Is that why you refuse to kiss me? Because you think I'm just indulging you?"

John looks away awkwardly. Spot on, then. You frown.

"You're wrong. I just wanted to see..." Right. This might not be the best thing to say.

"See what?"

This time you are the one who looks away. "How my body might react to it." You swallow. "John, I'm sorry, I think I might just stay cold."

John gives you a puzzled look. Even you must admit you don't make much sense. Images are haunting you. John contorting on your bed after having inhaled heroin. John strapped to a wheel and screaming his lungs out as Moriarty cracks the whip on his torso; screaming as Moriarty tears off his skin with the scalpel. A wave of nausea hits you.

"Sherlock! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," you reply dizzily. John gives you a look. He furrows his brow and caresses yours. "Sherlock, I want to help. But you must tell me how this whole turning cold business came about."

"I told you. I deleted memories."

"But you said they came back to you all at once."

"They did." You keep your eyes on the floor, but John waits for you to go on. "But I remained cold. It didn't matter. I didn't pay it much attention."

John's hand on your brow has fallen to your left ear, then to the nape of your neck where his thumb is rubbing those circles again. You shiver.

"All right. Your hand was warm when you held mine all night, right?"

You nod voicelessly.

"Will you let me try something?" he asks.

You nod again.

"OK. Come on then."

He unplugs the hairdryer and leads you down the corridor to the kitchen, then to the living-room, and into the staircase. You give him an inquisitive look, but he merely smiles and walks up the steps to his room.

"The bed isn't done. You'll have to help me," he says.

The moment you step into his room the smell hits you in the gut and memories of the night you spent there on the day Lieutenant Charles Benjamin Redford died invade your mind. You stand in the doorway, stunned. A flow of images and sounds washes over you. John calling your name from his nightmare. John laughing brokenly when you told him that he should not jump after someone in a chasm because there was no chance that he could save them. John's voice saying in the dark "I'm not leaving, you know".

"Sherlock?"

Right. The bed. You step into the room and allow it to swallow you, with its smell and overflowing memories. Just like the previous night, you help John make the bed. You do not point out you could have slept in the room downstairs, where the bed was already made and slept in. And so here you find yourself in the middle of the night, not completely dry, making a bed in a room you never thought you'd see again.

"There we go. Just lie down and relax, will you?"

"What are you going to do?" Your tone sounded a bit more defensive than you intended it. But John gives you a little smile as he pushes you down onto the bed.

"Trust me, I'm a doctor."

* * *

><p><em><em>Can you crush me<br>In the palm of your hand?  
><em>___There's nobody else who can.__

* * *

><p>You scowl at him but do not resist him. "And a soldier. Who had bad days."<p>

John chuckles and plugs in the hairdryer next to his bedside table, on which he puts it down. You eye it warily.

"It's not a gun, Sherlock, just a hairdryer."

"I _know_."

John walks to the door again, closes it, and turns off the light. You feel your muscles become tense at once.

"Relax. I'm just turning off the light so we get a chance to fall back to sleep."

"I'm not scared!"

"Never said you were."

You glare in the darkness towards him. John sits down and you feel his weight on the mattress. He takes your hand and rubs his thumb against your palm.

"I'm going to try to make your body warmer, Sherlock."

"By having sex with me?"

He remains silent for a second, clearly baffled by your bluntness, then breaks into chuckles.

"No. I'm only going to use the hairdryer and my hands. Nothing sexual though."

"But you're aroused."

"Yes, and you're not."

"Well how am I supposed to if you don't let me try?!" This came out more curtly than you meant it. You catch John's hand in yours at once, stopping the movements of his thumb, and squeeze it. To your relief, John gives a little squeeze back.

"Don't try. We'll see how it goes."

"What about you?"

"We'll see how it goes."

Before you can protest any further, he turns on the hairdryer and blows it in your face.

"What the...!"

"Stop arguing. Just let me try this. Please." He lowers his weapon and blows it in the nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. He aims it towards your head and gently tousles your hair again. This time he did not put the hairdryer on maximum; the air is blown more lightly, and you can hear yourself speak. But you remain quiet, and let John do whatever he wants. The smell of the room keeps sending you back to that night, the only time you slept in John's bed. It smells of wood and clean linen and peppermint.

John first blows the hot air on your hair, then your neck and your collarbone. He unfastens the knot of your bathrobe, and stops.

"Can I?"

You nod. Perhaps he saw the movement of your head. Or he just took your lack of response for a positive one. In any case he goes on, opening your bathrobe more in order to blow hot air on your shoulders, arms and chest. Sleepy. You actually feel sleepy. What time is it now? You can't remember when you left the flat. You were too obsessed with your goal: getting to the cemetery. And when you came back... Since when have you become so inattentive? You can't even tell at what time you came back in the flat, even though there is a clock in the living-room, and you have gone past it twice.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"You should dry your hair first."

"I'm fine."

"You're not being logical."

"Well nothing new, then."

You give up and slacken on the mattress with a silent sigh. Fine, then; if he wants to be stubborn. The hot air feels strange against your icy skin. John lowers the hairdryer and the warmth hits your stomach. Your breath catches in your throat, and your body must have become visibly tense, for John stops the hairdryer.

"You OK?"

"I just came back from a night outing in a cemetery, drenched, and am being blow-dried by..." You waver,, then finish awkwardly, "my flatmate.".

"Glad you finally consider me like that."

"What?"

"When you came back you said this wasn't your flat anymore. I think it's a big improvement, if you see me as your flatmate."

You stare. He seems sincere.

"Do you mind the hairdryer? I can stop if you want. But see..." He puts his palm down against your chest, and you shiver. "...your skin is much warmer where I used it on you."

"Nobody blow-dries their whole body. Nobody _gets_ blow-dried by someone else."

"If it works for what we want, I don't see the problem. Now, if you don't like it..."

"Just get on with it," you mumble, the drowsiness and the nervousness increasing, making for a rather strange combination. You imagine John rolling his eyes as he turns on the hairdryer once more and goes on lower: your stomach, your lower abdomen, your thighs... You notice how he does not linger on your groin, making it part of the eclectic body zone lower abdomen-groin-thighs-knees.

"Is it you or Mary who wants to get a divorce?"

If he's surprised by your question, John doesn't show it. Why do you keep talking? You wish you could just fall into a deep slumber, one without nightmares or dreams.

"It's a decision we both agreed upon," he says, blowing hot air on your shins and ankles.

"But who suggested it?"

* * *

><p><em><em>You know, you crush me<br>In the palm of your hand.__

* * *

><p>The hairdryer stops going down and hovers above your left ankle, as if stuck. It starts burning your skin, and you move your leg slightly to get away from it, snapping John from his thoughts. The hairdryer moves down to your left foot.<p>

"She did."

"And you agreed?"

"I asked her why, first."

"So you didn't want to divorce her."

"I do, now."

"Are you sure?"

John moves on the bed and switches to your left foot, then to your ankle, and slowly goes up. Shin, knee, thigh...

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm sure. I was even before you suddenly came back from the dead."

"Technically I didn't–"

"I know. Turn on your stomach."

You comply sleepily, and hear a chuckle in your back.

"Take off that blue gown, Sherlock. I need access to your skin."

"That's such a peculiar thing to say."

"Well I am doing a rather peculiar thing now, aren't I?"

You don't think this calls for an answer, and so you remain quiet, simply getting rid of the gown. John starts blowing hot air on the back of your head again, running his fingers through your curls, then brushing the nape of your neck as he lowers the hairdryer.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"How do you feel about Mary?"

"How am I supposed to feel?"

"That's not what I'm asking. How do you feel about her?"

You try to decipher what he means by that from his voice, but it tells you nothing. His tone is serious, but truly inquiring; a real question, then. John is asking, and not trying to make a point. But why the question? What kind of answer does he want?

"Well, she seems to be a nice person."

Even to you this doesn't sound convincing. John's hand strokes your elbow and you shiver at the touch, coupled with the hot air.

"That's not what I'm asking."

Of course, John knows you. He knows how you are when you meet someone. "Nice person" isn't something you deduced from your first meeting with Mary Watson. But then again, you don't exactly want to tell John what you saw this afternoon: a brave but unhappy woman doing her best, loving and natural towards her child and husband, dealing with what life throws at her like it must be dealt, energetic, positive, but, ultimately, alone: and all the information you have on her, and which you had even before meeting her, only corroborates your observations.

"She loves you and your child," is the best you can come up with to avoid both lying blatantly and saying too much.

"I mean, how do _you_ feel about me having her and Blake in my life?"

"Oh."

The hairdryer and John's hand are on your back now, going down your spine; when he reaches your lower back, John removes his hand, but continues to blow hot air on your body; first the left buttock, then the right one.

"It's your life."

"I know. That's not what I'm asking."

When the hot air reaches the back of your right knee, John's hand comes back on you, accompanying the warmth. He brushes his fingers down your calf, and the hot air follows. You shiver.

"You've moved on. It's only natural."

"So you feel that I've moved on."

"You have."

"No. I haven't."

You repress a groan, wishing you could just sleep or have this conversation in less awkward a position, ideally with John in your field of vision.

"I've learned to live with your death. That's different," John finishes quietly. You don't know what to say to that. Except the obvious.

"But I'm not dead."

"Exactly."

This time you roll on your back and turn to look at him. You cannot see his eyes, but at least you feel more comfortable discussing whatever it is that you are discussing — you're not quite sure.

"What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing. Only that I don't have to live with your death anymore. I have to live with you."

"You don't _have_ to."

"I want to."

He turns off the hairdryer and unplugs it, putting it down on the bedside table and joining you on the bed. Your heart rate is finally slowing down and the images of the cemetery receding. You let your body slacken on the clean linen, a little rough against your skin, and bask in the smells surrounding you — that of the room, enveloping, and John's, wrapped around you.

"Will I have others?" you murmur.

* * *

><p><em><em>Oh boy, you wake me and shake me.<br>I'll break the bullet in my hand.__

* * *

><p>"Other what?"<p>

"Night terrors."

John's fingers brush some curls away from you brow.

"Maybe. It would help if you talked about it. I can understand if you would rather not talk to me, but-"

"Don't be stupid, John. Who else would I talk to?"

John shrugs and sits closer to you.

"Do you want to talk about it, then?"

He takes your hands in his and starts rubbing them as if you were standing outside in the snow. Then he simply holds them, enclosing one after the other between his own palms.

"But there's nothing to talk about."

"Really? What made you want to go to the cemetery?"

John's hands move to your wrists and embrace them gently, reproducing the same enclosing warmth as for your hands.

"I wanted to take Moriarty out of my grave."

"Why?"

"I felt disgusted."

"Why?"

"Because it felt as if he were inside of me."

John's hands move a little on your wrists, stroking the thin skin of your inner forearm. Then they stop moving and rest there, warmth radiating from their palms and penetrating you slowly.

"You didn't become him, Sherlock. You only took his status."

"I know that."

"Yes, of course. Just reminding you."

The skin of John's palms isn't smooth; but you somehow like their roughness. They move around your forearm, slowly, until every inch of it has been covered by their warmth, then move on to your elbow.

"Is there a reason you felt that he was... inside of you?"

You swallow.

"Voice."

"What?"

"I could hear his voice. Yours, too."

"You hear voices."

"Not like _that_. Well, maybe. Look, it's just that my mind isn't properly compartmentalised. I tried something but perhaps it didn't work. Maybe I should go back to the palace."

To his credit, John might have tried to stifle his chuckle; but you still hear it.

"What did you replace it with?"

"Archipelagos."

A perplexed silence follows. You pout.

"It wasn't such a bad idea. More flexibility. Quicker connections. But I suppose the overflow of information when the memories came back had the effect of a short circuit and disorganised everything."

John's hands wrap around your arm, just above your elbow. He gently taps his fingers against your skin, brushing it with the tip. You shiver.

"How did it all come back?"

"Mycroft told me you were dead."

John's fingers stop tapping on your skin, then resume their caresses, slowly.

"So, what you remembered..."

"Concerned you, yes. And Baker Street. Or events that happened after I met you."

John falls silent. Perhaps you've said too much. His hands move again and reach your shoulder. You vaguely wonder if you will be able to let him touch you everywhere like this, the next and rather delicate zone being the throat. Even if it is John, your body doesn't respond very well to hands around your neck. Possibly because you've seen too many cases of strangulation.

"Are you going to do this on my entire body?"

"If you're OK with it, yes. I really think my touching you can help with the cold."

"And I really think my touching you could help with your erection."

John's hands freeze on you.

"I'm sorry, if it bothers you I can take a cold shower-"

"No!" That came out louder than intended. "Don't," you say more quietly. You clench your fist on the mattress, trying to avoid trembling again. You feel very cold suddenly.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"But just now..."

"I said _nothing_, John!"

You pull him down into a kiss again. You have no idea what you're doing; you wish he would just stop talking, stop asking you all these questions, stop _prying_. A little voice in your head tells you that you're not being fair, and it is your own voice. You stifle it.

John tries to say something into the kiss, most likely a protest, then attempts to push you back; but he is being too gentle, and you can easily turn around and pin him down to the mattress. He bites your lower lip and you gasp in surprise, letting go.

* * *

><p><em><em>I attack, you fight back<br>The redder the love, the better.__

* * *

><p>"What the hell do you think you're doing?"<p>

It could have been convincing, but for the obvious hardness between his legs.

"What do I have to do for you to kiss me back?"

"You don't know what you're doing!"

"Well teach me!"

"Sherlock we don't have to do th—"

"Of course we do! This is what you want."

"How can you be so sure of what I want when you don't even know what you want?!"

"I saw the videos!"

Silence. This isn't what you wanted to say; in fact, you had very much intended never to mention the videos at all. You groan and roll back onto the bed, curling up on yourself, your back turned to John.

"What videos?"

"Nothing. Ignore me. I'm in shock."

"Sherlock..."

"Shock, John! Night terror, remember?"

And to stress your point you wrap yourself in the blanket.

"Stop. Don't do this."

"I want to sleep. And you should, too."

"You're talking about Mycroft's DVDs. What did you see?"

"Nothing, John. Forget it."

Silence. John says nothing, but he doesn't lie down either. For a second you think he might leave the room.

"Is that what you call trying?" he asks at last.

"You won't let me do anything for you!"

"I'm not talking about sex, Sherlock!"

"Well that's what I was talking about!"

"OK, why don't you forget kissing and try to be honest instead?"

"But I am being honest!"

"Bullshit. Tell me what was on those videos."

Maybe it's because you're tired; or because your body is not as cold anymore and it is harder to control your nerves. In any case, you snap and sit up abruptly.

"I heard you telling Mycroft that you would forgive me anything, and that you would always support me regardless of circumstances; I saw you gulping down one and a half bottle of wine with sleeping pills; and I saw and heard you in my room getting off after you took heroin."

For a moment, John just remains seated, speechless. Then in a flash he's on his feet, walking away from you, distressed.

"How in the world..."

"Cameras. Mycroft."

"Mycroft saw...?"

"No, I don't think he watched them."

"You don't think—"

"He didn't, John."

"But you—"

"I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"That's why you... God."

"It's fine, John."

"No wonder you felt disgusted."

"Don't be stupid, I wasn't disgusted with—"

"I should probably move out. Give you some space."

"John—"

"I thought I was helping, but I—"

"John!" You stand up and grab him by the shoulders none too gently. "I'm not disgusted with _you_. I'm simply not used to this. You must understand."

"I understand, Sherlock. And I'm sorry you had to see this."

"You _don't_ understand."

You regret having said anything at all.

"Why did you have heroin in your room?" John asks shakily, trying to step back, away from you.

"Mycroft put it there. Probably. I didn't."

"No?"

"No."

Slowly, you try to move him towards the bed, but he resists you.

"I shouldn't sleep here tonight."

"Sit down."

"I'll just sleep on the couch."

"Sit down, John. I have to tell you something."

* * *

><p><em><em>You make it all ache.<br>I'm breathing, I'm breathing life again.__

* * *

><p>John takes a deep breath, then straightens into soldier mode. He sits down on the bed stiffly, and you sit next to him, forgetting all about being embarrassed.<p>

"That time when I went to a brothel..."

"On Valentine's day?"

You nod and look down at John's hands, focusing on his fingers, clenched.

"That night I had a dream with you in it and woke up with an erection," you say very quickly. John's fingers slacken with surprise.

"You—"

"I was torturing you. No, watching Moriarty, who was torturing you. For me. To make you scream."

John puts his hand on your arm, and so half of his fingers leave your field of vision. The rest of them completely slackens on the sheets.

"Sherlock—"

"I didn't try to stop him. I was enjoying it. I wanted to hear your voice."

"Sherlock." His hand tightens on your arm.

"You kept calling my name, and I liked it. I wanted to hear you scream."

John grabs your arm and pulls you down, crushing your lips together. Your eyes widen. So that's what kissing is. It is wetter than what you expected. Softer, too. John's hands are not soft at all, but his mouth surprisingly is. When he breaks the kiss, you barely take time to breathe, and go on:

"I woke up and vomited in the toilet. Then I took a cold shower and waited. I—"

But John's lips are back on yours, interrupting you. Deepening the kiss. You can't really taste the mint of his toothpaste anymore, only him. When he stops, you continue:

"I never had an erection after that."

"Did you try to have one?" John asks softly, stroking the nape of your neck.

"No, but I could have. I got kissed."

John stares.

"By the Woman. And Seb, too. In my sleep."

"Oh." He lets go of you and sits back. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm no different than them. Forcing myself on you—"

"I aimed my gun at Seb and turned down the Woman, John. I don't recall having done either of those with you."

"I—"

"The point is, John, I..." You swallow, and look down at his hands again. "I can't give you what you want. There are some things, well, that I can't—"

"I don't want anything, Sherlock. You don't seem to realize—"

"But at least I can touch you. And well, I can... I can let you touch me."

You bring his hand to your chest, pressing his palm down against your skin. John does not take it back.

"You don't seem to realize how much it represents to me that you're alive. And here. I'm happy, just with that."

He is sincere. It isn't logical in the least, but he is sincere. You sigh in exhaustion. You don't even feel sleepy anymore. Only restless.

"I'm going to kill Mycroft," John mutters.

"And I will help you."

"Is the flat still bugged?"

"No. I think he only bugged it for a purpose."

"For you to see?"

"There is no other reason he would do such a thing."

"Do you think I can sue him for this?"

"You could. But I would advise against it. Strongly."

John grumbles something incomprehensible and pushes you down onto the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Resuming where I left. If you don't mind. I think touching you like this calms me. Does it help with the cold at all?"

"It helps. But careful with the throat. I might bite."

"Mmm, I don't think I would mind."

You give him a look, but he can't possibly see you in the dark. Soon his hands are back on your shoulder, his rough and warm skin against yours, cold and smooth. John moves on to your collarbone. Your body becomes tense.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

"Would it help if I talked to you?"

"Depends on what you want to talk about."

John chuckles and moves his hands to your throat gently, not encircling it, but brushing against it and landing on the nape of your neck.

"There is something I've been wanting to ask you," he says, and you think: _again_?

"The magpie. I don't get it. What does it have to do with anything?"

His hands fall to your back and shoulders, and you almost stiffen. You breathe in and try to focus on the magpie.

* * *

><p><em><em>And oh boy, I know, boy<br>I need a breakdown__

* * *

><p>"It's an animal linked to folklore. Fairy tales."<p>

"Yes, what about the tale?"

"Didn't I tell you the tale?"

"You did." His palms brush against your collarbone and go lower, resting on your chest. "But I still don't see the point."

"The point is that the turtle-dove was right."

"What?"

"This is boring, John. Find another topic of conversation."

John's palms press a little too much on your chest, and twitch. For a second you wonder if he will pinch you or do something similar, but he doesn't. His hands only cover another zone of your chest, brushing your nipples as they move. You shiver.

"Fine. Let's talk about your notebook then."

You groan. "Let's not."

"Did you ever try to do a tabula recta with ideograms, in the end?"

"No. Never had time."

"You could have tried to do it instead of shooting the wall when you were bored."

"Not as fun."

"Fun? Sherlock—"

"Next."

"What?"

"Move on."

John's hands brush against your nipples again and you glare. "Do you have to keep doing that?"

"Do you find it exciting?"

"No, unnerving."

"Could be both."

"Is this supposed to make me warmer or are you just having fun?"

"Both." There is a smirk in his voice. His hands go on to your stomach. When John doesn't tease, his hands feel like a cataplasm, warm and soothing despite their roughness.

"Why did you write that notebook?"

"I don't know."

"Come on, you can tell me."

"Did you understand the Latin quotes?"

"Yes."

"Then you know I'm not lying. I have no idea."

John falls silent for a while, and starts drawing circles with his hands on your stomach, sending shivers after shivers throughout your body. When you begin to stiffen again, he resumes speaking.

"Why did you want to remember Keith Simpson?"

"For his forensic odontology. I thought it was brilliant. I was fascinated by his textbook, _Forensic_ Medicine."

"You read that as a child?"

"It's a textbook, John."

"For medicine students."

"It was in the Library."

John's hands keep stroking your stomach, lower and lower. He uses them to warm you up rather than to fondle you, yet you can't help but feel the caresses.

"Why is Whewell more useful than Hume?" John asks, and you can once again focus on what he is asking rather than feel awkward about his touch.

"Because of the chicken."

"Sorry?"

"Don't be."

"The chicken?"

"Russell's inductivist chicken."

"Well, tell me all about it."

"I know you're only trying to occupy my mind so I don't stiffen every time you touch a sensitive area."

"And it's working, isn't it? Come on. Tell me about the chicken."

"You don't really care about the chicken."

"Oh yes, I'm sure it's fascinating."

You frown, but play along nonetheless.

"Not really. In the farm the chicken notices that he is fed every day at the same time. But being cautious, he doesn't jump to any conclusion. He waits for more data. After a while, his data sheet is detailed enough for him to confidently make the prediction that the following day, at the same time, the farmer will come and feed him. Unfortunately this happens to be the day the farmer comes and wrings his neck."

"What kind of story is that?" His hands cover your hipbones on each side. You try not to squirm.

* * *

><p><em><em>Can you crush me<br>____In the palm of your hand?__

* * *

><p>"It isn't a story, John, it's an illustration."<p>

"Of?"

"Of the fact that induction, unlike deduction, is not truth preserving: it can only produce probabilistic conclusions." John's thumb start rubbing on your lower stomach, his palms still pressed to your hips, going down slowly.

"Right... What does that have to do with Hume?"

"Hume pointed out that in fact, we think induction works because it has worked in the past, which is just another inductive reasoning. It's a logical fallacy, because the reasoning is circular. He even denounced deduction as being ultimately based on induction."

"You've lost me."

"You chose the topic."

"Go on." He puts his hands on your thighs, near the crotch. His thumbs draw circles on the skin of your inner thighs. You breathe in sharply, and continue very quickly:

"Often the first premise in deductive reasoning is the result of induction, which, according to Hume, makes for rather shaky foundations. For instance, _All men are mortal_. This statement is the result of inductive reasoning: until now, we have never observed any man who was not mortal."

"Mmm. You've made me doubt that, you know." His fingers brush against your groin. You stiffen and he lowers his touch at once.

"It's fine. You can touch me."

"I am touching you."

"I meant—"

"So what about Whewell?"

"Don't change the subject."

"Actually, you're the one changing the subject."

Taking a deep breath, you grab John's hand and put it on your crotch forcefully. If touching a man's genitals disgusts him, you would rather know now.

"Sherlock!" he protests, trying to wriggle away — but you keep his hand there firmly, his palm and fingers touching you.

"Whewell was clever and focused on scientific investigation alone, not on metaphysics. His theory was that scientific investigation had to start with hypotheses, not observations, because hypotheses tell us where and how to observe. Confronting a hypothesis with the data allows us to determine whether the hypothesis is false or not. This is abduction, or inference to the best explanation."

"Sherlock, let go!"

"Does it disgust you?"

"What? No!"

"Then what's the problem?"

You know what the problem is: you are still limp under John's hand. You suppose this would turn off anyone. But John leans in against you, his whole body brushing against yours, his warmth spreading to you everywhere his skin touches yours; his lips hover above your cheek before falling to your mouth. His kiss is soft and deep. It feels like his face is melting into yours, which is a rather strange sensation. You reaffirm your grip on his hand, refusing to let go. John stops trying to get away and instead wraps his fingers around you. His hand is warm. So very warm. He breaks the kiss gently but rests his brow against yours, staying close.

"You said this was abduction," he murmurs, his nose rubbing against yours, "but your website is called The Science of Deduction."

"Well," you begin, catching your breath, "I call it deduction, because what I do is better." Tentatively, you put your free hand on the nape of John's neck, keeping him where he is. You close your eyes. "I don't infer to the best explanation. I infer to the _correct _explanation by looking for the _only_ explanation of _all_ the facts."

John lets out a chuckle, and it feels strange against your lips.

"There is nothing _funny_, John. Surely you can't agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate yourself is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate your own powers."

"Naturally," he says, but there is still a smile in his voice.

His fingers on you move slowly, up and down, and you can't say it's unpleasant; but you remain despairingly soft in his hand. You swallow. John's mouth curves up against yours.

"What about Darwin?" he murmurs.

"What about him?"

"You wrote _Forget Hume. Whewell better. Not to mention Darwin._"

"Did you learn that notebook by heart?"

"I just read it many times."

You open your eyes and look at him. Slowly, you pull his face down towards yours until your lips are touching.

"Tell me how to do it."

"Do what?"

"Kissing."

* * *

><p><em><em>There's nobody else who can.<br>You know, you crush me  
>In the palm of your hand.<em>_

* * *

><p>You press your lips to his and try to mimic what he did. Well. It's definitely just as wet. You're not sure about the softness. Gradually, John relaxes in the embrace and opens up, allowing you to deepen the kiss. When he starts moaning, you know you've succeeded. You break the kiss.<p>

"How was it?"

"Good."

"But _how_ good?"

"_Very_ good."

You frown. "No it wasn't."

John smiles. "Oh yes it was."

He kisses you again, his fingers still wrapped around you, moving up and down. But you remain limp. You try to concentrate on the kiss but cannot help stiffening slightly. What if you don't harden at all? What if you no longer can?

John breaks the kiss but keeps pressing his lips to your cheek, then to your chin, your throat, your collarbone. He stops and sits up. His hand wrapped around you strokes your groin, and the other continues down your right thigh.

"John, I'm sorry I—"

"Why is phenomenology not a science?"

"Stop interrupting me!"

"Stop racking your brain about unimportant matter."

"Unimportant matter?!"

"Yes."

You try to swallow the lump in your throat. "Oh, so you don't care if I can never get aroused with you?"

John's hands stops moving at once, and you can feel his gaze on you.

"Do you?" You try to swallow that damn lump. "Do you care, Sherlock?"

You don't answer. John's fingers on your thigh and groin are burning you. You feel a cold within you, deep down your chest, that you finally recognize as fear; but you do not know what it is that you fear.

"Phenomenology is not a science because it doesn't have any experimentum crucis."

John sighs but doesn't press the issue. "Which is?"

"An experiment which helps invalidate all hypotheses but one, which it thus corroborates."

"You know, the problem seems to me psychosomatic." You swallow. Clearly he's not talking about phenomenology. "I think you're just so nervous about it you can't get excited at all. There's nothing wrong with you, Sherlock."

"Why would it be psychosomatic?"

"Because the reaction you described to me when you woke up with a hard-on was one of shame and disgust. If you've associated those with arousal, then it's only natural you would unwittingly try to avoid it as much as possible."

Now his left hand is on your knee and his right hand on your thigh, simply palming, radiating warmth. He might be correct. But then what could you do about it? Anyone would have been appalled. Anyone would have felt sick.

"Even if it is psychosomatic, I do not see what I can do."

John's hands keep moving down, slowly, stopping regularly just to warm up the zone they're covering. His touch is efficient and precise; fond and gentle, but purposeful.

"We can think of something; I'm sure this can be solved quite easily. But you have to stop worrying about it. Did it feel good? When I touched you."

"It didn't feel bad."

"Well, that's a start."

"Sometimes it felt good."

"Even better."

"But John?"

"Mm?"

"I haven't touched you yet."

"It's fine. I want to take care of the cold first."

"I don't feel cold now."

"Good. That's good."

He caresses his way down your shins and wraps his hands around your feet. You wriggle your toes in protest.

"My feet are just fine!"

"They're not warm."

"But they're not cold."

"Let me make them warmer anyway."

You groan, but let him do as he pleases. This room is very different from the other one, you muse, trying to focus on your surroundings to alleviate the unease. It is filled with a different scent, and different memories. Better ones. You did not usually sleep in beds. The memories of that night you spent here must have been so strong that you actually avoided sleeping in beds at all, or could not fall asleep there anyway. You only started sleeping in beds again in hotels where there was nowhere else to sleep; and then your problem wasn't so much the bed as Sebastian who kept crawling into it.

John's hands on your feet are vigorous, massaging the soles and the toes with something close to conviction. A small smile graces your lips. There is something unsettling about John's devotion to you. Then you remember the screams and the torture and your face falls.

* * *

><p><em><em>You make me want to be a human again<br>Can I be your only human again?__

* * *

><p>"What is it?"<p>

"What?"

"You just stiffened. What's troubling you?"

"Doesn't it bother you at all?"

"What?"

"That dream I had."

John shrugs. "Your mind was a mess, Sherlock. Your day had been filled with sex and violence and crime. It's not like you actually tortured me to get off."

"What if it's the only way I can get off?"

Another chuckle. John lets go of your feet and crawls up to press a light kiss on your mouth. "Well let's try other ways first, shall we?"

"I didn't mean—"

"Turn on your stomach. I'm going to do your back now."

You comply without protest.

"Is that why you stiffened just now?" John's voice comes as his hands come to rest on your shoulder blades. "You were thinking about the nightmare?"

"Mm."

"I think you should talk about it."

"Is that the doctor in your speaking?"

"It's Google speaking. Remember?"

Your lips curve up a little. "Did it do you any good?" John's nightmare had been about Charlie and sand and blood and the army and a chasm; and you. You try to picture what it must have been like. Blood. A wound. A scalpel penetrating the skin. John's screams.

You clench your fists.

"Sherlock? I said talk about it. Not _relive it._"

You let out a broken chuckle. The warmth of John's hands on your back is spreading to your entire body. His smell is shrouding you. The smell of his room is shrouding you. You feel swaddled by his presence as his hands roam your back, gradually covering every inch of your skin, and you wonder how he could possibly be closer than this. You try to imagine what it would feel like if he were truly making love to you, and fail. There is a sense of respect and a selflessness in his touch that render it all the more powerful – irresistible.

"Sherlock?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You should."

"Why?"

"So we can find a way to work with it."

"I have no idea what you mean, and I don't want to know," you mumble, sleepiness taking its toll on you once more, John's warmth helping you relax slowly into slumber. His lips in your neck open your eyes with a jolt.

"Tell me."

Your brow clouds. Perhaps he has a right to know.

"Fine. But keep your hands on me. They're warm."

John kisses you again, nuzzling the nape of your neck, and you can feel his smile against your skin. "That was rather the point."

"You were strapped to a wheel and Moriarty whipped you. Repeatedly. He strangled you with the whip, too, until you wheezed. Then he cut the skin of your torso to shreds with a scalpel."

John's hands are now on your lower back, and you do not sense any hesitancy before they fall to your buttocks, although you are aware he carefully avoided to touch that zone when he was using the hairdryer. He doesn't stroke nor press nor brush, but simply puts them there, on the edge at first, then closer to the line parting them, then lower, waiting until the whole area exudes the same warmth as his hands. His silence makes you nervous. You are wondering if you should apologize again when John unexpectedly leans in and presses a kiss on your right buttock, just where it joins the thigh. You feel warmth pool in your face.

"Thanks for telling me," he says, and you can feel his breath on you. You shiver.

His hands go up your back again and then down your arms, slowly, touching where they haven't touched you yet.

"You know," John goes on softly, "what you saw then might well be close to how people look and sound during sex."

"So people having sex look like they're being tortured?" you ask sarcastically.

"They may. What elements really marked you in the dream?"

You swallow. "Your voice in general. You screaming, calling my name... begging." You close your eyes and try to concentrate on the feel of the rough linen under you and of John's skin on you. "The blood. The sweat. The way you thrashed and contorted to avoid the scalpel, quite in vain. I don't want to talk about it."

"You're doing great," John says, caressing your cheek and chin, then down your neck to your shoulder. His hands stroked you down the spine, past the buttocks, and stopped on the back of your thighs. "If what aroused you really is what you just described, then I wouldn't worry too much. And if you ever feel like it, I'm pretty confident we can reproduce it. Mostly."

"You mean without the whip and the scalpel," you remark bitterly. His touch on your thigh becomes more gentle, as if to assuage you.

"We can negotiate for the whip. But definitely without the scalpel."

"Negotiate for the whip? I didn't know you had BDSM tendencies, John."

"I really don't."

You cannot help but smile. His hands, now on the back of yours knees, do not feel like some strange, rather unwanted foreign body anymore. It is as if they were part of the room and the scent filling it and the warmth pervading it. They go on to your calves, then your ankles, and finally the soles of your feet again. You feel whole.

"John?"

* * *

><p><em><em>You bring me back.<br>You bring me back in pieces  
><em>___In the palm of your hand__

* * *

><p>"Mm?"<p>

"Come here."

He lies on his side next to you obediently, and you turn towards him. You can see his face more clearly now, and he too must have grown accustomed to the dark. He smiles at you.

"How do you feel?"

"Good. I'm good. But you'll have to guide me for this."

"For what?"

He gasps when your fingers wrap around his hardness. As you suspected, it is harder now than it was before.

"God, Sherlock!"

"Just Sherlock is fine."

"You–"

"I must tell you that I am very new to this. I might not be very... talented."

"Oh God."

"I would much prefer you said my name, if you have to say anything."

"Please, you don't have to... aah!"

Your eyes widen at the sound that just escaped John's lips. You see him bite them to stifle a moan, and frown.

"Don't do that. I just told you I liked your voice."

"Sherlock, please, I can't let you–" He stops and buries his face in your chest, resting his brow on your collarbone in an attempt to repress another groan. Around his length your fingers are only mimicking what he did to you previously, without much results; but you feel him harden in your palm. Suddenly he places his palms on your torso and pushes you back.

"Please, Sherlock, listen to me. We don't have to–"

You swallow his nonsense with a kiss. Apparently you're becoming rather good at it. Gradually, you feel your self-confidence coming back.

John is trying to wriggle his way out of the embrace, but soon surrenders to the double onslaught. The wetness of his mouth against yours is soon joined by the wetness you feel on your fingers. His erection becomes slippery and he starts moaning into the kiss. You break it, surprised by the vibration his groans sent in your mouth. The moment his lips are no longer connected to yours his moan seems to fill the space around you, and the noises he makes hit you like a punch in the stomach. You feel a knot forming in your lower stomach, and vaguely wonder if you're getting nervous. But if you are, the tension you feel is rather exhilarating. It gives you a sense of power.

"Sherlock, please–"

He is interrupted by another moan. And another. And another.

"God, you infuriating... If you want blood, you will have blood."

He swoops down on you and bites the base of your throat, near the collarbone. You gasp.

"What the...?!"

His body heat is overwhelming, and soon you can no longer tell whether the wetness you feel all over his skin and brow pressed to your chest is rain water or sweat. He lets go of your throat with a sigh and arches his back as your fingers brush the tip of his hard-on.

"Please, Sherlock, don't–"

His voice is strangely reminiscent of that in your nightmare. The way he moves and the sounds he makes, disturbingly similar.

"I think you were right. I might not have to torture you."

"Sherlock!"

Mimicking him once more, you lean in and bite into his skin with vigour. He arches his back once more.

"Aaah!"

The tastes of blood and sweat and what must be his shower gel mingle with what you identify as the distinctive taste of John's skin. It makes you light-headed; or perhaps it is the exhaustion. In any case the turtle-dove was right, and the magpie was wrong.

"Sherlock, what are you saying?" John asks hoarsely, a strain in his voice. You blink. Did you just say that out loud? Your fingers between John's legs are apparently becoming more and more talented, as John is having more and more difficulties to catch his breath. You smirk.

"You didn't pay attention," you murmur, barely brushing down his length and eliciting a moan, "it's all in the dialogue. _Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o._"

"God I have no idea what you're saying... aaah!"

"I already told you, just call me–"

"Sherlock!"

"Good." John moans again. "So. That is what the turtle-dove says. But the magpie keeps answering: _One's enough, I tell you, one's enough! _Still talking about nests, of course."

"Sherlock I swear... aaah! _Please._"

"You are rather sensitive."

"Anyone would be with–"

You're not sure what it is your hand did, but this time it earns you a scream. You watch, fascinated, as John convulses, his eyes rolling back, then thrashes and cries and babbles: "Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherl–"

* * *

><p><em><em>There's nobody else who can.<br>You know, you crush me, crush me__

* * *

><p>He bursts in your hand. The sudden wetness and stickiness on your palm and stomach surprises you, but does not disgust you. Maybe you're just tired. Or maybe for some reason the whole experience was worth it. Panting, sweaty and unbearably warm, John tries to move away from you. It takes you a few seconds to realize he looks appalled.<p>

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, I–"

"It's fine. We can shower tomorrow."

"No, I meant... Damn I'm really horrible."

"Don't be stupid."

"You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to."

"But–"

"John, I understand that you must feel this is a bit unfair for you."

"For _me_?"

"Well, yes. I wasn't the one turned into a begging mess by your touch. But you must understand that there is nothing wrong with _your_ touch, and that I just–"

"God, Sherlock, of course I know that!"

"Then what's the problem?"

"Isn't this your first hand job?"

"Yes. But it wasn't bad, was it?"

"No it certainly wasn't. But that's not the issue! I didn't pleasure you."

"Doing this to you was very pleasurable, believe me." You try to hide the smirk in your voice. John does not answer. Maybe you went a little far. Tentatively, you move closer to him and press your lips to his, lightly.

"I told you I would try. I never said I would be great at this from the beginning. But I've always been quick in improving in most fields."

"Sherlock–"

"Look." You grab his hand with your non-sticky one and bring it to your groin. You feel sleepy. So very sleepy. "You can touch me if you want. But you took care of me. I only wanted to take care of that for you, too. I'm sorry if you didn't like it."

"I loved it."

You freeze. John's face is so close to yours you can feel his breath against your skin, tickling it. You swallow.

"I love you."

This is no news to you, but somehow hearing it stuns you. John's hand on your crotch is stroking, up and down. It doesn't arouse you but it isn't unpleasant. John does not wait for an answer, does not ask for one; he leans in and kisses your brow, your temple, you cheek, your eyebrow, the corner of your lips, your chin, your earlobe, your throat, your collarbone, your chest, your left nipple, your shoulder. He does it slowly and it doesn't feel like an attack; you do not feel besieged nor smothered. Only shrouded in warmth. You relax in his embrace and the drowsiness increases.

"You know," he murmurs, "I've been wanting to apologize to you. For not having seen through it all that day when you called me from the roof."

"But John, that was the point."

He shakes his head. "I should have noticed. I'm sure part of you wanted me to notice."

You remain silent.

"After you 'died' I often woke up to the sound of a violin at night," John goes on, and through your sleepiness you can still tell that now he is mostly babbling, blurting out everything that comes to mind. He too must be exhausted. Slowly, you pull him closer to you, trying to make him settle down against your body for the night. "I caught a glimpse of you in the street every day. Every time it rained, I could smell your scent – I don't know why, you never particularly smelled like rain, and it wasn't raining when you jumped. Every time I opened the door, I would expect you to rush in and act as if nothing had ever happened, as if it had all been a dream. I hated that Christmas carol you played the only time we spent Christmas together – the only Christmas we got to spend together."

"Christmas comes every year, John," you mumble drowsily. "There are still many to spend."

For some reason this truism seems to touch John and he snuggles up closer to you.

"I bought a dummy once. Made him look like you. Bought a wig and a flannel shirt."

"Are flannel shirts supposed to be as much part of me as my hair?"

"Not anymore," he says with a smile, pressing a kiss against your chest. "I beat the crap out of it."

"The dummy?" Oh. Yes. You remember that. A note about a dismembered dummy.

"Yes. I punched it and tore off the flannel shirt, I hurled the dummy at the wall, broke an arm, strangled it, kicked it, and finally tore its head off."

"And I thought _I_ was a sadist."

John chuckles and kisses you on the cheek. "It was only a dummy."

"Thankfully..."

"I stopped watching telly. I stopped putting milk in my tea because it made me think of you."

You catch his lips and try to make him shut up and relax enough to fall asleep. You can't remember ever feeling so sleepy. "Speaking of tea," you murmur, "that mug you broke. I know you liked it. I'm sorry."

"Why sorry?"

"Well, you were trembling and dropped it because of me."

"But–"

"I'll buy you another one."

"Don't worry, I have the one with the chicks on it."

"All the more so."

He chuckles. "Are you jealous?"

"Of the mug?"

"Of Mary?"

You frown. You really don't want to have that conversation now. In fact, you do not want to have _any_ conversations right now. You never felt so warm and so comfortable. John turns out to be the best bolster you ever had.

He runs his fingers through your hair, and with his other hand takes yours.

"I was jealous. The first Christmas after your death, I was incredibly jealous. Of Irene Adler. It was insane and I knew it. But I thought she was dead, and you, too. I felt that she had won you, eventually."

His hand holding yours is warm. He rubs his thumb on your palm; in circles. You close your eyes. As soon as the darkness swallows you, you remember a dream. Someone was talking. You couldn't decipher the words, but the voice was familiar. The darkness was opaque. In the dream it was cold and forlorn, but now you feel warm, shrouded in John's presence. John keeps speaking and you remember that the voice in the dream was his. Like now, he was speaking, and as you drift off to sleep, gradually you cannot quite decipher what he is saying. The timbre of his voice spreads a sense of intimacy within the darkness, making it comfortable and cosy; making it feel like home.

"John?"

"Yes?"

As you slowly fall into slumber, you let yourself drown in the warmth of John's body against yours. He is so close you can't be sure whose heat you're basking in.

"Tomorrow, post on your blog that I'm back."

A small smile plays on your lips.

"I need a case."

You fall asleep before you can hear John's answer; the last thing you feel is that you are falling together.

* * *

><p><em><em>In the palm of your hand<em>_

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

_tbc_


	53. Aere perennius

**A/N: Here we are at last. I must say that after all this time, it is both a relief and a shock to finish this story. I hope you have all enjoyed the journey. Thank you to all reviewers for their interest and support: I am infinitely grateful for the time each of you took to write a review, or reviews.**

**I also wanted to let you know that I will be editing this story quite massively now that it is complete, if only to level up all chapters. It is almost impossible to find a beta reader for such a long project, so if anyone is interested... :) More realistically, if you enjoyed this story, there is a very simple way to help me make it better: tell me five to ten elements that put you off, be it a recurring spelling mistake, some inconsistency in the storyline, or perhaps some passages that confused you. Many of those shortcomings I might be aware of, and already plan on fixing; but maybe you'll point out something that I wouldn't have thought of at all. ****In any case, all critiques are most welcome and greatly appreciated. **

**Thank you for following this story to the end! I hope that you enjoy the very last chapter.**

**NB:** The cipher at the end is a Vigenère Square. I'll let you guess the keyword ;)

**...**

**Nutrisco et extinguo:**"I feed upon it and extinguish it"

**_A quick note on the title:_** I did not want to bother you with this until the last chapter. But you might want to know that _nutrisco_ can be read both as "I feed upon it" and "I feed it". Francis I of France used the expression as his motto, with both meanings. His coat of arms was a salamander, and the motto went with it: "I feed upon the good fire and extinguish the bad one" or "I feed the good fire and extinguish the bad one".  
>Except that technically, what's interesting in this expression out of context is that the object of both verbs ("it") is not actually mentioned, and could as well be one and the same: "I feed (upon) the good fire and I extinguish it" or "I feed (upon) the bad fire and extinguish it". Or, even if we make it two different objects, "I feed (upon) the bad fire and extinguish the good one". Now don't get me wrong: clearly the king's motto did not mean that and was directly borrowed from the Italian "Nudrisco il buono e spengo it reo" ("I nourish the good and extinguish the bad", i.e. "Fire purifies good metal, but consumes rubbish"). But it remains that the Latin version of the motto, <em>Nutrisco et extinguo<em>, is much more ambiguous, in many ways. You may now deduce the many links with this story and its various characters, and understand why I chose this as a title.

**Aere perennius: **"more lasting than bronze"

**Warnings: **Rating for this chapter is K+

.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter LII: Aere perennius<strong>

_Morning lullabies, by Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

><p>oOo<p>

* * *

><p><em>Yesterday I woke up with your head on my arm<em>_  
><em>_My hand was numb, circulation gone__  
><em>_But I dared not move the pretty sleeping one_

* * *

><p>June 13, 9am<p>

I woke up this morning to the sight of your sleeping form beside me. I think I haven't got used to it yet: you, being alive. Being there.

It's been two days – almost two days. 36 hours, maybe. So much has happened I haven't had time to write anything down, when this is clearly the most exciting and miraculous thing that's happened to me in three years. Miraculous, that's the word. You finally performed that miracle, Sherlock. But it sure took you long enough.

I'm glad we didn't draw the curtains last night; you look beautiful in the morning light, almost peaceful. I don't think I ever saw you look so young and defenceless. Oh I know you won't like the word, but that's the first impression I got. It didn't feel real. When I woke up I had to reach and touch you, just to check. And then I felt your skin under my fingers. It was warm, Sherlock. Your body is warm again. For how long? I don't know. But now we know how to make it warm, and if I have to blow-dry you every night until we die, I certainly will. Three years of thinking I would never see you again have made me much more tolerant, I think. Much more willing to baby-sit you. I'm not sure you'll enjoy the attention all that much, but it's your fault for letting me believe you were dead for so long.

Sometimes I'm terrified I've invented it all. That I made up the scene at the school with Seb, invented the shot he received in the shoulder, invented his suicide… and your return. I don't think you could have made it any more dramatic. Shooting Seb, giving him my gun, ignoring me; and then, running away. Good thing there was no bullet left in the gun, believe me. I could have shot you. In the legs, of course. I would have done anything to catch you at that time.

I wish I could post it on the blog - you'll have to admit this is a scene you'd definitely find in adventure novels. But we don't want to mention the gun, or a supposedly common bloke shooting himself in the mouth. Especially when illustrations drawn by said bloke are on the blog. I just looked at them again. They're not bad, you know. He was good at sketching. I really wish it didn't have to come down to that.

It's funny. I've been awake for half an hour, got out of bed and went to get my laptop and this notebook, and still, you're sleeping. To be fair, last night was pretty intense. I mean the cab chase to the cemetery and Mycroft rescuing us thanks to CCTVs, of course, not... never mind. You're bound to be tired. But I never thought I'd see the day.

Speaking of Mycroft, you'll have to contact him first. He seems to be keeping his distance — didn't even show up in person last night. It's thanks to him that we had a car to go back, so I suppose his not respecting our privacy does have some good points. Still, I don't think I can see his face again without punching it. But you never know: three years ago I thought I wouldn't be able to see him without putting a bullet in his head.

Yours is so soft. Your head. How can you have such soft hair? Not just your hair. Your face, too. Your cheek. Your lips. Your chin.

Right. I'm getting side-tracked. But you're just... never mind. I'm babbling. Did you babble in your notebook? I wonder. Probably not. It didn't look like babbling to me. You're not the type. Though I wish I could see you babbling at least once in my life — ideally because of me. How was it that you put it, again? A "begging mess". I swear I will turn you into one too, Sherlock. Some day.

I'm still not sure about last night. Maybe I shouldn't have been so obvious. But it's you we're talking about. I don't see how I could have possibly hid anything from _you._ And yet... Was it too soon? You didn't seem to mind. In fact, I didn't expect you to be so… keen. It was a tiny bit embarrassing, you know.

On another note, I went to get my laptop just for you: so I could post that message on my blog.

How should I say it?

**_Sherlock is back. He is alive. I'll post more about it later, but he's dying for a case, so if anyone has a nice little murder he could investigate..._**

Maybe I shouldn't put dying. Considering the situation, that's a bit... Yeah. **_But he craves a case._** That's better. I'm sure you'll say something about the tone, but if we do get a case because of it, you'll be happy enough.

I'm certainly happy enough.

When I read again what I've written up to now in this journal, this is clearly the happiest entry. It will be the last, too. I won't be needing this notebook anymore. Soon, I'm sure I'll have more than enough to blog about.I really hope no wacko just commits a crime to celebrate your return, though — we can never be sure with your fans.

Before you said you wanted a case, I had been thinking (don't make that face, it happens); if you didn't want to be a consulting detective anymore, I was going to suggest bee keeping. Are you still as fascinated with bees as you were when you wrote your notebook? Seriously, anyone reading it would think you'd have studied entomology in college rather than Chemistry. Not my cup of tea, I have to say. But I don't mind bees. And Mary likes them because they're yellow.

We'll have to talk about her, some time. You know we do. I think you would get along, and also get on each other's nerves quite badly, if that makes sense. She kept saying she wished she could have met you.

As for Blake... Well. That's another talk we'll need to have. But I don't want you to worry about it now. You'll get used to Mary and Blake just fine, I'm sure. With time.

...Are you really sleeping? Not faking it?

…OK. Not faking it. You would definitely bite if you were awake and I poked your cheek like that.

* * *

><p><em>The sun had painted patterns on your face<em>_  
><em>_As you breathe Sunday air__  
><em>_Rode on to my open arms__  
><em>_I became your pillow_

* * *

><p>You lost weight. Did you even notice? But your face didn't change.<p>

Still, you'll have to eat more from now on. I'll make sure you do. Good thing my paternity leave starts tomorrow. I don't want to make it sound like I'll treat you like a child. It's really not my intention. God knows I've been needing you around for so long it'd be somehow hypocritical of me to pretend you're the one who needs me most. I just... I think I haven't quite realized my luck yet. It's taking time to sink in. You are alive. You are alive, Sherlock.

If somebody had told me, when I came back from Afghanistan, that five years later I would have a kid, an ex-wife and a male partner with whom I would live solving crimes (all right, you do the solving, I do the blogging; still, how was it that you put it? I'm perfect as a conductor of light?) I would have thought the person raving mad.

But here I am. Life is full of surprises.

The skin of your face is warm. I imagine the rest of your body is, too. It was, last time I checked. But I won't check again. I don't want to wake you. I should probably stop touching you in your sleep, too; what would you say? But you look so innocent. Childlike. It reminds me of when we met - the way you struck me as a twelve-year-old-looking genius. You look lovely when you sleep, Sherlock. It might have to do with you not speaking.

Did Irene Adler ever see you like this? No, probably not. I don't know what I'm saying.

...Did _Seb_ ever see you like this?

God, I can't believe the guy actually dared hit on me when he... Never mind. You probably don't need to know that. I should cross it out.

...Are you the jealous type, I wonder? You're definitely bossy and self-centred, or rather, _case-_centred, but I'm not sure about jealous. Especially jealous of Seb. Doesn't seem likely to me.

Seb. I think I'll miss him. Some part of him. But honestly, can you picture him as a devoted bodyguard and henchman? I can't.

I don't feel like I only know a character he built to deceive me; I believe that he was himself, with Chris, with Mary, with me. With you, too, perhaps, though I wouldn't know. I don't think he lied to me about his personality. Hell, he didn't even lie about his job, technically. We just didn't take him seriously when he said he was going around shooting people.

I know he would have killed me then and there if I had refused to take the pill; and still I don't hold it against him. Maybe because he's dead, and I regret losing him as a friend — although if he had lived, I would have punched him for not telling me you were alive. Or maybe because it's me he targeted, and not you. Had it been you, I don't know how I would feel about it. Perhaps I still wouldn't hate him. But I wouldn't have hesitated to shoot him.

It's strange. I think I just understood how you must have felt towards Jim Moriarty.

I was always jealous of the attention you gave him, of how happy you looked when his name came up; of how thrilled you were when you guys played _the game_. You changed a bit after the Pool. From a sparring partner he truly became the enemy. But still. There was something between you two: some kind of connivance, some kind of affinity. I couldn't understand your bond.

Now, I think I do. He sure chose his John Watson well.

Seb. Funny how he managed to get so close to you and so close to me and yet we still have a hard time answering this very simple question:

In the end, who was Sebastian Moran?

A white page. The last letter was a white page. Was it the last thing Moriarty wrote before he killed himself? Did Seb know it was blank? I have a feeling he did. A final way to cock a snoot.

A blank page. There will be many blank pages left in this journal. In your notebook there were none. Even the last. _"I have no idea."_

_Take it._

_Beware of the dog._

_I have no idea._

Your brother said your notebook wasn't a cipher, but a question mark. That there was no key to it, because there was no keyhole. At first I thought he was just giving me his smartass reasoning. But in the end, I think he was right.

A question mark.

A blank page.

"John?"

* * *

><p><em>You let me smooth your hair<em>_  
><em>_I will sing you morning lullabies__  
><em>_You are beautiful, and peaceful this way_

* * *

><p>You open your eyes to the whiteness of the sheets, and blink. The room is so bright.<p>

What time is it?

John is awake. How come is John awake before you?

"Hello, sun–"

"Don't," you groan before he can say something stupid.

Sunshine. There's too much sunshine in the room.

How late is it?

The sheet is rough around you, but you feel warm. John is still lying in bed, so close to you it might be his body heat that you're feeling and not yours. Still, it's warm.

Shutting your eyes, you grab John's arm and pull him down towards you.

"Sherlock, I was writing!" he dares to protest.

"About me."

"Well, yes, about–"

"That wasn't a question, John."

His arm stiffens slightly in your embrace. Too curt, perhaps? You half open your eyes to check, but catch his smile. His hand comes to stroke your cheek. Not too curt, then.

"I've missed you," he murmurs, leaning in to place a kiss on your temple. He'll want to shave this morning, you note absently, although you don't mind his prickling skin.

"How long have you been awake?" you ask. Now that you're slightly more awake, you wonder why you pulled him down towards you; you're not quite sure what to do with this loving, willing bundle of warmth in your arms.

"Half an hour, maybe."

"You've missed me for half an hour."

"I've missed you for three years."

You fall silent.

What can you say to that? Your hand searches for John's on the bed sheet, and when you find it, you start rubbing your thumb on his palm awkwardly. His smile broadens.

"How did you sleep?"

"Without dreams," you say.

"Well, that's... good, isn't it?"

"Certainly. Kiss me."

"What?"

So slow.

You pull again and bring his lips to yours. They're soft and warm. You slip your tongue and try to part them. The warmth really isn't helping you to wake up, you muse. When John finally grants you access, you smirk into his mouth. That is, until you feel his fingers in your hair, caressing, his other hand in the nape of your neck, massaging, and his tongue, invading boldly. This leaves you with only one option.

You fight back.

Perhaps John wasn't as awake as you thought, or perhaps he did not expect you to resist and fight for dominance. And win, naturally. You must admit that you would be quite at a loss if John did nothing and waited passively for you to do everything; but luckily he isn't that type of man. If he were, he wouldn't come with you on cases, wouldn't kill to save your life, wouldn't tend to your wounds and keep an eye on your health. If he were, you realize, it wouldn't be as gratifying to have him submitting to you.

In any case there is something very enjoyable about kissing John – possibly the fact that he cannot speak while doing so. Not that you don't like his voice. But...

Your eyes fall on John's laptop, lying on the bedside table, and you break the kiss instantly.

"Did you post the message?"

* * *

><p><em>I know you have to close your eyes<em>_  
><em>_On everyone, let me help you, __  
><em>_I'll sing you to sleep__  
><em>_With morning lullabies_

* * *

><p>"Yes," he says, his breath short.<p>

You glance at him.

He doesn't seem very happy about the interruption. John's flushed face does not technically arouse you, but for some reason, it pleases you very much.

"Any answer?"

"I only posted it ten minutes ago, Sherlock!"

You shrug. "Well _some_ people aren't slow."

"Not many, according to your criteria," he mumbles. You smile.

Strangely enough, you're not in a hurry to get up. You close your eyes. Something doesn't feel right. It takes you a few seconds to understand what exactly.

You are not bored.

You blink, nonplussed. You're lying in bed with someone who is neither a victim nor a criminal nor a witness nor a suspect; and you're not bored. Maybe you will be, in a few hours, or in a few minutes. But here is the incredible yet undeniable fact: for now, you are not bored. You look at John with wonder.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"It might be fine."

"What?"

"If I don't get a case within the hour. Maybe."

John chuckles and shakes his head. He doesn't even look tired; only blissful and doting. Slowly the images of last night come back to you, and your eyes widen. Moriarty's voice. Seb's voice. Even John's. They're quiet now. Your head is filled with silence. You catch John's eye, and he searches your gaze.

"How do you feel?"

"Warm."

For a second you fear this answer will fail to convince him, but he snuggles up closer to you and rests his cheek against yours.

"Yes. You're warm."

You swallow. John had to run out after you in the night; he had to take a cab, chase you, and bring you back home...

"Did you pay the cab?"

"What?"

"My cab. Last night."

"Oh. Yes. Don't worry about that."

"Good. That's... good."

You feel stupid. There's no other word for it. John said that even if you had other night terrors he would run after you, always, and catch you. But you don't feel like reiterating the experience. At all. You liked it much better when you were doing the comforting following Google's advice, even if that too was a little awkward. In fact, you would rather there be no need for comforting either way.

"You were writing in a notebook," you comment to dispel your sense of unease.

"Yes."

"Tired of technology?"

"Don't be silly, I just wanted... Never mind."

"To do like me. With my notebook."

"Yes," John concedes.

"You are aware that this was twenty years ago. If I could have had a laptop back then–"

"Oh, shut up."

He kisses you again. Apparently, you have the same method to make one another silent now; except that he does it when you are pointing out the truth, and you, when he spouts nonsense.

You have a feeling that you'll be doing a lot of kissing from now on.

"Well, don't mind me, then," you say once you've got your mouth back. "On you write."

You lie back and close your eyes, trying to concentrate on John's scent; on the warmth surrounding you; on the feel of the clean, rough sheet around you. You'll have to take a shower after that. And John, too. You might want to save some time and water by doing it both at the same time.

"You mean you're going to lie there while I finish writing?"

Your eyes snap open. John sounds befuddled. You frown.

"If you're implying I should go down and prepare breakfast or something of the like–"

"No! No." He laughs. "I'm just... surprised."

"Just be quiet and write. We're taking a shower afterwards."

"We?"

"Write."

* * *

><p><em>Let me lie in the curve of your body tonight<em>_  
><em>_And I will hear you tumble into sleep__  
><em>_I will watch you heal__  
><em>_I will watch you heal with me_

* * *

><p>You just woke up, interrupting me. Not that I mind, don't take me wrong. I'd give any notebook in the world to have you waking up beside me every morning.<p>

...all right, that did sound corny.

But look at the bright side: I'm not writing you a poem. Although considering how much fun you had reading them, I might consider writing you one if you ever feel down. Maybe. You'll have to find some other way to stroke my ego, though. I found that it's something that greatly suffers from being with you most of the time – my ego.

But I was talking about Seb. What I really wanted to say about him... You'll make fun of me for using ellipses in a journal, I know. But if I just cross out the sentence you'll read it anyway, so I don't see the point.

There are so many things I can't discuss with you right now because it's not the right time. But to me, Seb was truly a friend. Since I believed that he had never met you, at the beginning it was easier for me to talk to him, to go to the pub with him. He didn't give me the look full of sympathy the others did. Even Greg.

Greg was a wreck, you know? I'm not sure you realize. You'll have to try and be a little nicer to him from now on. It's thanks to him that your name was cleared, after all. Mycroft did nothing. I did nothing. I regret that I wasn't the one who did it for you, but I don't think I was capable of it. Truth is, I was more touched by your death than I dare say here. I didn't give a damn about your reputation: it's you that I wanted back. Maybe you've seen it. Surely, you must have seen it.

But back to Seb.

I've been thinking about what he said at the very end – his last words to the world. To us. He talked about the symmetry, and I wonder how he could possibly have felt, not knowing exactly what Moriarty had in mind for the grand finale. Maybe in the end, it was all improvised.

Could Moriarty have been sure of the choices you'd make? What about Seb? Did either of them know, really _know_, that you would make it on time? I don't think so. Jim, maybe. But not Seb.

So why did he do it? Out of what kind of sick devotion did he do it? Or maybe he knew. Maybe he had an inkling. Both of them might have known from the beginning what you would choose, and just took the dramatic way out. What if it wasn't so much devotion as a sense of harmony or beauty? Symmetry. In the end, this could just be the way they chose to live and die.

I wonder to what extent we can really speak of madness. Somehow it doesn't feel like a relevant way to categorize them. "They were mad", period. Sounds a bit too easy to me.

All right, maybe I'm just saying this in the light of the past three years. I suppose that having been considered mad myself, it is somewhat easier to sympathize with Seb. Having been to war, too. Having met a crazy genius. Though to me you are nothing like Moriarty. And I guess that to you, I am nothing like Seb.

Hopefully.

Did you understand his last words, Sherlock? Not the part about the eggplant – you'll have to explain to me what that was all about, some day – but just before that.

**_"Owe no man any thing, but to love one another: for he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law."_**

That was a surprisingly appropriate quote, wasn't it? Key words. _Owe. Love. Law._ And maybe _fulfilled_ too. Yet I'm no closer to understanding what he meant than back then. It might be because there is no keyhole.

Or, it could just be that I'm too stupid to see it.

Just like I was too stupid to see through you three years ago. I can't even feel guilty about it because even if I should have, even if I regret that I haven't, the truth is, I couldn't have seen through you. Not if you hadn't wanted me to. Not if the part of you that wanted me to notice was stifled by the part that wanted to fool me.

Just a magic trick, was it? And I fell for it. No matter what I say now, I would have still fallen for it. I was bound to.

And so the fact remains that if you want to manipulate me, you can. Even if now I'll be more suspicious, I don't have your massive intellect. Nothing I can do about that.

No, the one thing I cannot forgive myself, even after those years, isn't so much that I was fooled as _how_ I was fooled ultimately.

I couldn't have noticed that you were planning to fake your own death even if I had paid all the attention in the world. But I should have seen something was wrong when you didn't react to Mrs. Hudson being attacked and possibly dying. I even told you. You threw a man out the window because he had manhandled her a little, and yet you wouldn't move when...

I was stupid then. Not only stupid. Blind. That is something I should have seen. It didn't require a massive intellect. Only some knowledge of you. Some knowledge who you were. Some faith.

I'm sorry I called you a machine.

You're not. You never were. I don't know if you bugged your grave, so I'll write it again here in case you never heard: you are the best human being I ever met. The most human. I do not only admire your brain, but your heart too. Because no matter what you or Mycroft say on the matter, you do have one. You're a great man, Sherlock.

When I met Greg the first time, that's what he said about you. That you were a great man, and that he hoped, one day, you would even become a good one.

I think that you have now.

Deep down, you're good, Sherlock. I won't tell you out loud now, because you might decide that I'm only saying it to make you feel better after what happened last night.

But never doubt it for a second: you are good. You can never be Moriarty, because you are a good man. And anyone who believes otherwise is a fool.

* * *

><p><em>I will sing you morning lullabies<em>_  
><em>_You are beautiful, and peaceful this way__  
><em>_I know you have to close your eyes on everyone__  
><em>_Let me help you_

* * *

><p>"John?"<p>

"Yes?"

"I'm bored."

"Oh." He does not look surprise. Only slightly disappointed, perhaps. "Well, go take your shower then, if you like."

You stare.

"Wouldn't that be a problem?"

"What?"

"Me, no longer being in your field of vision," you develop patiently.

He lets out a nervous little laugh. "I'll have to learn to live with that, so..."

Oh _please. _"Just drop the notebook and come with me."

"I'm nearly done."

You let your head fall back on the pillow with a pout. Even if you know that he is writing about you, there is something unnerving in him not paying any attention to you when you're lying right next to him.

"John."

"Yes?"

He doesn't even look at you. You frown.

"I can take this room if you want."

"What?"

Now he's paying attention. "I imagine it is better for the crib to be on the first floor, near the bathroom and toilet and kitchen."

"The crib? What are you–"

"Yes, the crib, John. Your son's crib. My room... I mean, the room downstairs is larger than this one. And I don't like the smell in it anyway."

"Sherlock, what are talking about?"

"Settling in. I know I don't sleep much, but I'd still like to have a room."

Finally John puts down the notebook. Sure took him long enough. "Of course you'll have a room. You'll have _your_ room Sherlock."

"This can be my room."

"But it's mine."

"We both know you've grown used to sleeping in the other one. It's fine. I don't mind."

"We could put the crib in the living-room."

"Near the sofa? No, certainly not! And I intend to resume my experiments in the kitchen, John."

"God help me."

"You don't need God. I'm here. And don't blush."

"I wasn't–"

"Now you are."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"You..."

John's lips are warm. The smell of his skin engulfs you. Yes. This room might be just fine. It is filled with John's scent, and nothing else. No baby smell or woman perfume. Not perfume, you amend. Mrs. Watson doesn't wear perfume. But still her scent is quite different from John's. Different shampoo, different shower gel, different deodorant, probably.

"Sherlock," John murmurs against your mouth. "The room downstairs is yours."

"Barely."

"It has your scent. It holds your memories."

"This one holds better ones."

"Really? Irene Adler slept in the other bed."

"Are you being jealous?"

"Me?"

"You are. You're being jealous."

"There's no reason for me to be jealous, is there?"

"None at all."

He gives you a small smile. "We'll talk about rooms later. But I think it's good that you keep yours."

"Isn't it that you want to keep _yours_?"

"What? No!"

"Because we can share, you know."

* * *

><p><em><em>I'll sing you to sleep<em>_  
><em>_With morning lullabies__  
><em>_Close your eyes__

* * *

><p>"We can... I beg your pardon?"<p>

"I've been sleeping with Seb for more than a year, John."

His eyes widen. You groan.

"Not like _that_. What I mean is that I have been... trained, one could say. Now I can stand sleeping in the same bed as someone else."

"Sherlock, I don't want you to have to _stand_ anything."

"Perfect. Let's go shower then."

He shakes his head. "You're impossible."

"Only improbable."

You exchange a knowing smile. "Let's go," you repeat quietly.

"All right, give me a second. I need to check something online."

You sigh and fall back onto the bed with a groan.

"What can you possibly need to check online?"

"Ciphers."

You snort. "Ciphers? You?"

"Exactly. That's why I need the internet."

You shrug and start playing with the hair on John's chest.

"What are you doing?"

"Occupying myself. Where is your scar?"

"You know where it is."

"Can I touch it?"

He gives you a look.

"Yes, of course."

You run your fingers over it lightly. John shivers.

"Hypertrophic with keloids," you comment.

"Quite disgusting, huh?"

"I don't know. I'm not the one who had to stitch you back."

John looks at you strangely, then averts his gaze.

"I meant now. It's still disgusting now," he says. You arch an eyebrow.

"Clearly you've never experimented with eyeballs."

This makes John chuckle, but he still shakes his head. Then he freezes and stares at his screen with round eyes.

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"We got an answer."

"Yes?"

"You've got a case."

You jump. "Show me."

**_Dr. Watson_**

**_I've been looking for a competent investigator for days. My boyfriend has just been taken into custody for the murder of his father – but I know, I _****know_ he isn't guilty! I am on my way to London and should be at your place before noon. Mr. Holmes might be our last hope. -A. Turner_**

"Brilliant! Oh, John, murder, she said murder! It's Christmas!"

"Sherlock, wait!"

"No, John!" You take his face in your hands and give him a brief, enthusiastic kiss. "I'm not waiting. I'm taking a shower, _now,_ with or without you." You put on your dressing gown, jump out of bed, and turn back to him as you open the door. "We have a case, John! A _case."_

Maybe you're not a good person. That's why you need John. He is the good in you. But to elucidate crimes, you are unbeatable.

This is what you do. This is the job you created for yourself. The last and highest court of appeal in detection.

_Consulting detective, the only one in the world._

A unique job, for a unique mind. One that wouldn't settle for philosophy or scientific research or politics or even crime. What one man can invent another can always discover. You are the discoverer. As for John... Nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to another person. John is that person.

_Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o. _

__One's enough, I tell you! One's enough.__

"Come on, just wait a minute!" you hear him protest from the bedroom as you hurtle down the stairs.

You smile, but do not wait. You know he will be right behind you.

* * *

><p><em>And I will sing you<em>_  
><em>_Morning lullabies_

* * *

><p>There we go.<p>

You get a case and you're already on fire, leaving me behind. Always the same old story. You think it'll never change, do you? But I'm not letting you run off by yourself this time. I will be right beside you.

Time to finish. I know you'll read this notebook eventually. So here's a message for you, Sherlock:

**QLAISRZYIGWIK**

This is the short and the long of it.


End file.
